


The Prince, Captive

by Rollercoasterwords



Series: Laurent's Perspective [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Canon Compliant, Complete, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, it's really just enemies in the first book though, like so slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27972209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rollercoasterwords/pseuds/Rollercoasterwords
Summary: Literally just The Captive Prince but from Laurent's perspective. Because I hate myself, apparently.Chapter by chapter--copying the parts that fit, filling in the many places that don't.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Series: Laurent's Perspective [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048732
Comments: 68
Kudos: 192





	1. Prologue

Laurent woke, as he often did, with a start that he immediately repressed, so that anyone watching would have seen only the slightest twitch of his shoulders to suggest that he no longer slept. There was, of course, nobody watching. He was alone in his room, in a wing full of empty rooms, patrolled by guards in blue livery. He opened his eyes slowly, and realized he was holding his breath, which he made himself release. He then went about the business of forcing his muscles to unlock from where he held them, in tension, so that he might push himself up on flattened palms to gaze outward from the bed. He was alone—of course. There was nobody watching him.

  
It was still dark through the glass of the window, which was overlaid with a grille that cut the sky into tiny pieces. Laurent leaned back on one wrist, lifting the heel of the opposite hand to rub into his eyes. It had been a bad dream, the same dream he always had. He was in the tent at Marlas, watching Auguste ride away. He could do nothing but stand and watch as his brother grew smaller, until he was nothing but a tiny sun of a man atop a miniscule horse, surround by the blue sea of his soldiers, which then turned into a real sea, and then became red, like blood, and swallowed Auguste up. Laurent was still in the tent, watching. He would try to step forward, and his body would give a great jerk, and he would wake up.

  
As a boy, he would wake screaming. Servants would come running—torches would be lit, sometimes physicians called. _Perhaps we should go to Chastillon_ , his uncle had suggested, when the tonics supplied by the physicians failed, the fresh air may do you some good. _Some time away, perhaps. Some time alone…_  
He ground the heel of his hand into his eyes until he saw stars. It did no use to dwell on the past. He ripped the blankets away violently, frowning at the slight chill. The fire was low in the grate. Summer was still lazy on the horizon, not fully committed yet to shaking off the cool night air of Spring. The stone floor was cold against the soles of his feet. He made his way carefully to the desk across the room, where a pitcher of water still stood next to a goblet. As he drank, he gazed out the window.

  
The King of Akielos would die today. He had watched his uncle plan the coup for months, trading coded messages with Kastor, the bastard prince. The King would give his last, heaving gasp on his sickbed, and breathe no more. His son, prince Damianos, would fall under the cold bite of a sword. Prince Kastor, the son of the King’s whore, would take the throne and shake hands with Laurent’s uncle, and they would all agree to play nice. Until, at least, some skirmish on the border got out of hand, and a crippled Akielos would be forced to face the full wrath of Vere.

  
He had expected to feel—not like this. He searched for the sweetness of vengeance that he knew should come. The man responsible for Auguste’s death would finally die—would die betrayed, and in pain. It was more than the barbarian scum deserved.

  
And yet there was no happiness. No—satisfaction. Only a hollow sort of pit, eating away at Laurent’s stomach. Somehow, foolishly, he had always thought it would end with him and Damianos, face to face. That it would be his sword that spilled the monster’s blood. That he would see it run hot and thick and red, swallowing up the body of his brother’s killer. He hadn’t expected this—the distance, the cold stone under his bare feet. The impersonal machinations of his uncle. Always his uncle.

  
He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was no matter now what grandiose dreams of revenge he had clung to from childhood. Damianos was not the only one with a sword at his throat; Laurent, too, was a man living on the edge of a knife. He had been living there for quite some time—had grown used to it, almost—but the passing of his twentieth birthday made even the slightest shift feel deadly. The coup had drawn most of his uncle’s attention, yet he still found time to engineer more and more persistent requests that Laurent fulfill his duty at the border. It was not the endgame, not yet—that would come after Kastor was on the throne, when the Regent needed an excuse to start a war. The death of the prince in a border skirmish—why, the entire country would take up arms, men, women, and children! There would be no question of the culprit: a bastard king, so devious that he would, rumor has it, plot to kill his own father and brother just to grasp with greedy fingers at the throne.

  
Laurent had no doubt that the requests his uncle had allowed him to twist his way out of would become more difficult snares to undo, once he had finished setting the entire trap. There would be no room for mistakes, these next months. Laurent had only to survive—just to live until he saw twenty-one. It was the deadline that he had been dragging himself towards since he was fifteen. Just twenty-one, and he would be able to take a breath. It was not easy, though, to release the tension from his shoulders as he thought of the single-minded intensity with which his uncle had applied himself to toppling king of Akielos and his heir. How much more eager would the Regent be, Laurent wondered, when he was working not to leave a throne empty, but to ensure that he himself was not parted from it? He attributed the sudden chill down his back to coolness of the air, as the embers of the dying fire flickered feebly in the grate.

***

It was three days later that he was summoned to his uncle’s chambers. He went with his guards—Jord and Orlant, two of his best men. The sun was high in the sky, breaking through the windows and their grilles to dance along the walls of the castle in tiny, broken shapes. As a child, the light had fascinated Laurent; he had always loved the beautiful details built into each facet of his home, especially the pieces that were easy to miss, if you weren’t looking. As he entered his uncle’s halls, a bit of light in exact shape of a sun caught his eye, flicking at the edge of a corner.

  
He scanned the room for tawny brown curls, but his uncle was alone. Except, of course, for his own men, standing unobtrusively in the shadows of the room. Their livery was red as fresh blood—as red as the blood spilled in Akielos three mornings hence.

  
“No Nicaise?” His voice was conversational, polite.

  
“I wanted to speak to you privately.” His uncle was stern, broad shouldered, standing over his desk with his hands clasped behind his back.

  
“And here I thought you were joined at the hip. No—forgive me. Not the hip, I suppose.” His tone didn’t change, but he saw his uncle stiffen, slightly. The men behind him shifted uncomfortably. Laurent felt the tiniest twist of pleasure in his gut, at that.

  
“Petulance is unbecoming in a man, nephew.”

  
“Would you prefer a boy? You could call for your pet.”

  
“I would prefer that you treat me with respect, as I have done my best to teach you. I called you here with news of Akielos.” It was said with the gently chastising tone of a parent berating a child, but the gleam in his uncle’s eye was sharp. Laurent bit back a response about what the Regent had done his best to teach him. The anger was ice in his veins—it always was, around his uncle.

  
When Laurent kept silent, the Regent continued, “We have signed a treaty with the new King. Guion will begin the journey back to Arles tomorrow at daybreak. I expect, based on the custom of Akielos, that he will return with gifts. As an offering of goodwill.” His eyes glittered as he said it. Laurent had the distinct feeling of a man playing a game and discovering, suddenly, a new and indecipherable rule. It was, unfortunately, a familiar feeling when it came to his dealings with the Regent.

  
He kept his face smooth as polished marble, raising an eyebrow. “But uncle, my birthday was weeks ago. Or have you forgotten?” He did not say, _You used to be so good about remembering._

  
“I haven’t forgotten,” the Regent’s voice was soft, a caress. Like a snake coiling gently around the prey it plans to suffocate, “but neither have I forgotten the anger you harbor towards Akielos. I want your word that you will treat the King’s gifts with care. I would hate to jeopardize our newfound peace with petty grudges.”

  
“Petty grudges.” Laurent repeated.

  
“Nephew, I know how you feel,” still in that same soft voice, “But we must place the prosperity of our people above all else. Surely you, of all people, do not wish to risk war? You know the loss that violence brings.”

  
And the gain, Laurent did not say. Instead, after a moment, “Is that all you called me here to say? Play nice with Kastor’s toys? For someone who speaks so often of what it is to act like a man, you certainly seem to insist on treating me like a child.” He kept his voice dry, lightly amused. Unruffled. The Regent inclined his head, a silent dismissal.

  
At the door to his room, Laurent dismissed his men. Alone, he braced himself against the wall. He felt sick to his stomach, as he often did after speaking with his uncle. Bile crawled into his throat, and he choked it back. Petty grudges. He slammed a fist against the stone.

  
And then began, with a frenzied sort of determination, to try and puzzle out the meaning behind his uncle’s words. Clearly, Laurent thought, he would be receiving gifts from Kastor—gifts that he would not enjoy, or his uncle would not have bothered to admonish him, in advance, to treat them with care. Now, if Laurent failed to do so, his uncle would tell the Council that he was a spoiled, overly emotional child, unfit for matters of diplomacy. How troubling, his uncle would say, to see the crown prince squandering his talents, when he is so close to taking the throne. Will the treaty survive the blundering errors of a petulant boy-prince?

  
Because that was, somehow, what he would always be to his uncle: a child. It was the way the Regent always made him feel when they spoke: small, stupid, naïve, like a boy alone at Chastillon, with no brother or father—

  
_No._ He would not revisit those memories. He would not go back to that keep.

  
Laurent took a deep breath, steadying himself. Whatever it was Kastor sent—whatever despicable gift his uncle had arranged—Laurent would not give him the satisfaction of a political blunder. He would outplay him—he was already parsing together the new rules, was already piecing together the plot. He could do this. He was not a naïve child; he was the crown prince of Vere. And besides, what gift could Kastor possible send that would cause him to make such an egregious mistake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so none of this was taken from the actual book--obviously Pacat's prologue contains events entirely outside the realm of Laurent's perspective, so I had to make up what I thought might be going on with him in the time leading up to Chapter 1. Starting with the next chapter, though, bits and pieces are copied directly from the book--especially dialogue that takes place in scenes where both Damen and Laurent are present.


	2. Chapter One

It was worse, much worse, than anything Laurent had expected. When he heard of the slaves, he thought he’d known what was coming. At first, it was the simple distaste with which he viewed the matter: he was to be saddled with a man who’d had the will trained out of him, until he was little more than a child. And then he had heard the hesitance in the handlers’ voice— _an unusual choice, thought you might like a challenge_. So it was to be a soldier, no doubt someone who’d fought at Marlas—a beast of a man who’d angered Kastor, who had been turned into a pawn to anger Laurent. Someone who would force the prince to travel back in time, to a bloody field, every time they saw each other.

A pleasure slave, for the chaste prince—it was a cruel joke either way. Crueler than even Kastor knew. But Laurent had steeled himself. He would arrange for the slave to be treated well, to be washed and fed and kept on silk pillows. The man, whoever he was, would have the most delightful prison a person could dream of, where Laurent would lock him away to rot. If the slave was to be his, to do what he pleased with, then Laurent would do nothing. It would be almost too easy.

So of course, it was worse. Laurent entered the room, chin raised, with his retinue of courtiers and guards to see a man kneeling on the floor, head forced down by the chain around his neck. The first impression was simply the shock of mass: even kneeling, you could see that the man was tall, heavily muscled and sculpted all in hard planes, like a statue. His skin was a light shade of brown, made pallid by the weeks in the dark hold of a ship. He had a body like the soldiers Laurent admired as a boy, who would sometimes strip down until their bare chests gleamed with sweat as they practiced on the training fields. Auguste would practice with them, throwing them again and again into the dirt, and then reaching down to grip their arms and pull them back up, laughing.

And then the man looked up, neck straining against the chain, and his eyes found Laurent’s as if called there by some wordless signal. The world shifted, and rearranged itself.

 _No_.

They were eyes that Laurent would never forget—that he had glimpsed only once before, behind a helmet spattered with gore. They were eyes that burned like wood set aflame, deep brown and somehow full of smoke. The intensity with which they bore down now, on Laurent, made his heart stop.

_It can’t be._

But it was. Damianos. Prince-Killer. Auguste’s murderer.

Laurent felt himself shutter, like a curtain being drawn, even as the anger burned like acid in his veins. _He’s supposed to be dead_. That his uncle would dare—would even _think_ to keep him alive, _to bring him to Vere_ , to place him in Laurent’s path under the flimsy guise of gift—it was the sort of specific and pointed torture that only the Regent could create for a man. He forced his mind away from the poisonous anger he felt towards the man on the floor only by focusing instead on the cold burn of hate that he felt towards his uncle.

 _I will not be outplayed_.

He forced himself to move forward, allowing only a fraction of the hate he felt to show on his face. “I hear the King of Akielos has sent me a gift,” he made his voice cold, “An Akielon groveling on its knees. How fitting.”

His focus narrowed to the man in front of him, even as he remained aware of the audience watching his every move. They were murmuring around him, uneasy. They had expected a sweet, submissive doll—not a brute of a man, held back only by nine links of iron, who glared up and frowned past the gag shoved into his mouth.

“He’s intended as a pleasure slave, but he isn’t trained. Kastor suggested that you might like to break him at your leisure.” Councillor Guion’s voice was strained. It was difficult even for a diplomat to ignore the insult inherent in Kastor’s “gift.”

“I’m not desperate enough that I need to soil myself with filth,” Laurent said. He did not bother trying to hide the disgust in his voice.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Break him on the cross. I believe that will discharge my obligation to the King of Akielos.” The idea gave him some grim satisfaction—but it would disturb the court, if he offered to wield the whip himself.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Handlers moved towards the man, and the escort began to disperse now that the entertainment was over. There were so many other means of entertainment, in his uncle’s court. But Laurent could not tear his eyes away. He watched the man—the slave—survey the room, saw his eyes flicker over the handler approaching him as if to size him up, saw the subtle flex of his fingers.

“Wait,” Laurent said. The handler stopped.

Laurent stepped forward a few paces, gazing down at the slave. He had never heard Damianos’ voice. He’d always wondered, after, if they had spoken—if it was the last thing Auguste heard, before he was run through with steel.

“I want to speak to him. Remove the gag.”

“He’s got a mouth on him,” warned the handler.

“Your Highness, if I might suggest—” began Councillor Guion.

“Do it.” There were no more warnings. The man shifted his jaw when they removed the gag, but remained silent.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Laurent said, in a tone that was almost conversational, but stayed slightly on edge.

The slave looked up. Their eyes met. Laurent looked down. He wondered if this was the last thing Auguste had ever seen.

“Perhaps he’s defective,” suggested Guion.

Laurent did not look away. Reaching for the clipped vowels of Akielon, he repeated the question.

“I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart.” The response was immediate, and sour. He spat out the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. His Veretian was almost perfect—Laurent could detect only the slightest trace of an Akielon accent.

The handler backhanded him across the face. One of the guards, hovering over the slave’s shoulder, shoved his face roughly down to the floor.

“The King of Akielos says, if it pleases you, call him ‘Damen,’” said the handler. There was a ripple of shock among the courtiers. Laurent felt as if there was a stone in his throat.

“They thought a slave nicknamed for their late Prince would amuse you. It’s in poor taste. They are an uncultured society,” said Councillor Guion. Laurent searched the slave’s face.

“I heard that the King of Akielos may marry his mistress, the Lady Jokaste. Is that true?”

“There was no official announcement. But there was talk of the possibility, yes.”

“So the country will be ruled by a bastard and a whore,” said Laurent, “How appropriate.”

The slave—Damen—jerked forward as if by instinct on the word whore. The chain rattled. Laurent allowed the smirk that twisted his lips, filing away that piece of information.

“Shall we have him taken to the cross, Your Highness?” asked the handler.

“No,” Laurent decided, “Restrain him here in the harem. After you teach him some manners.” _I need time to think_ , he didn’t say. As he left, he could hear the sound of his men following orders behind him.

***

It stayed with him, alone once more in his room. The hard crack of flesh against flesh, the rush of breath. Flashes of the viewing—the sour Veretian words, the eyes like burning coals, the way Guion had said _it’s in poor taste_. Damen.

He tried, desperately, to think through the situation, to draw neat lines over what he now knew. But his thoughts were interrupted by conflicting wants—he wanted to go back to the room with a sword and run him through, the way Auguste had been run through. He wanted to tie him to the cross, and strike him until his skin was the same shade of red as the Akielon flag. He wanted to scream at him, to ask him—but no, there was no use in questions.

Physical pain was not an option. The Regent had made it very clear that failure to respect Kastor’s gifts would be a mistake—a mistake he was hoping his nephew would make, which only made Laurent more determined that he would not succumb to his uncle’s machinations. There were other ways, he knew of inflicting pain; he had seen the unconscious jerk against the chain. If Laurent had to suffer, he could ensure that Damianos—that Damen—suffered, too.

And yet his mind kept scattering back to the questions. It was the one thing, above all other things, that he could never have. Still they welled up inside him, like blood from a cut— _did he say anything, before you cut him down? Was in he pain? Was he afraid to die?_ Laurent’s head was pounding, as if the questions themselves were beating against his skull, desperate for release. Eventually, he called a servant and did the one thing he had promised himself he would never do again: he ordered a pitcher of wine and began with fierce determination the work of drowning his thoughts out.

***

It was dark, when he returned. The servants lit the torches on the walls, and the guards he’d brought with him dragged Damen upright by the collar, startling him awake. Laurent watched him blink sleep out of his eyes, surveying the room before his eyes landed on Laurent’s. An expression of distaste crossed his face, like a man confronted with rotten fruit.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do with you,” Laurent told him, “Break you on a flogging post. Or maybe use you the way Kastor intended you be used. I think that would please me a great deal.” He stepped forward, until he was close enough that they would be face to face, if Damen pulled the chain taut. But he remained still, and silent. Laurent felt a cold spike of anger.

“Nothing to say? Don’t tell me you’re shy now that you and I are alone.” His voice was silky, slick as oil.

“I thought you wouldn’t soil yourself with a barbarian.” Damen’s voice was carefully neutral.

“I wouldn’t,” Laurent assured him, “But if I gave you to one of the guards, I might lower myself as far as watching.” Damen recoiled—reacting, again, as if unconsciously. His revulsion was clear. It almost made Laurent smile. The man was an open book, and Laurent was going to tear out every page.

“You don’t like that idea?” he said, “Maybe I can think of a better one. Come here.”

Damen did not respond immediately. He regarded Laurent warily, then seemed to make a decision. He took a step forward. _Too easy_.

“No,” said Laurent, satisfaction creeping into his voice, “Crawl.”

Again, the man could not hide his reaction. Scornful disbelief spread across his face, as though the command was unthinkable—as though his obedience towards the command was unthinkable. Laurent’s fingers twitched, and one of the guards sent Damen sprawling on his hands and knees. Laurent nodded, and the guard drove his fist into Damen’s jaw. Once, then again. And again. Laurent watched the blood drip from his mouth. But he didn’t react this time, only stared resolutely at the floor. When the guard was done, Damen shifted his jaw, as he had when they had removed his gag.

“You were insolent this afternoon, too. That is a habit that can be cured. With a horse whip.” The scant slave garments had been loosened, sliding down the planes of Damen’s chest. Laurent’s eyes caught on a ragged line of skin, paler than the rest. Before he could stop, he heard himself saying, “You have a scar.”

The slave’s eyes went wide. “I—served in the army.” The words were slightly disjointed, rushed. Through the haze of wine, Laurent almost smiled at the fear he saw in Damen’s face. How he must be trying to hide his identity! A barbarian, a liar, and a coward—too scared to openly face the brother of the man he’d killed. Too honorless for honesty.

“So Kastor sends a common soldier to rut with a prince. Is that it?”

He watched the man struggle to answer the question. “Kastor wished to humiliate me. I suppose I—angered him. If he had another purpose in sending me here, I don’t know what it is.”

 _You stupid brute_ , Laurent thought. “The Bastard King disposes of his waste by tossing it at my feet. Is that supposed to appease me?”

“Would anything?” His uncle’s voice was a knife in his side. Laurent felt himself sinking further into the wine—letting it wash the world around him, soften its edges. He turned.

“You find fault in so much, lately.” His uncle’s voice was soft and warm. It made Laurent want to throw up.

“Uncle,” he said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

The Regent didn’t respond, instead turning his gaze to the chained man on the floor. “The slave appears to have self-inflicted bruising.”

“He’s mine. I can do with him what I like.”

“Not if you intend having him beaten to death. That’s not a suitable use for the gift of King Kastor. We have a treaty with Akielos, and I won’t see it jeopardized by petty prejudice.”

“Petty prejudice,” Laurent repeated. He did not say, _And fucking the man who killed my brother—that’s an appropriate use?_

“I expect you to respect our allies and the treaty, as do we all.”

“I suppose the treaty says I am to play pet with the dregs of the Akielon army?”

“Don’t be childish. Bed who you like. But value the gift of King Kastor. You have already shirked your duty on the border. You will not avoid your responsibilities at court. Find some appropriate use for the slave. That is my order, and I expect you to obey it.”

Finally, the threat. The plan was, suddenly, clearer. But that did not make it any less torturous. Laurent bit back the words on his tongue, processing the information he had received. “Yes, uncle,” He said.

“Now. Come. Let us put this matter behind us. Thankfully I was informed of your activities before they progressed far enough to cause serious inconvenience.”

There was a sick flush of amusement at the words. “Yes. How lucky that you were informed. I would hate to inconvenience you, uncle.”

“I am glad we are in accord.” It was just like the messages he’d exchanged with Kastor—everything always meant something else.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter features the arena scene. I chose not to copy in all of C.S. Pacat's detailed descriptions because, honestly, I don't think it was necessary to describe the sexual assault(s) in detail. However, they are still present in this chapter, so please bear that in mind.

He sent the servants away. The guards, too, with instructions to keep anyone from entering. He ripped at the laces on his clothing with fingers made clumsy by wine. His hands were shaking.

Laurent’s entire body felt like a knife. Violence sang through him, a crashing wave so broad and deep that it had no clear direction. The events of the day bled together, muddying each other—Damen’s eyes, his uncle’s voice, the nervous glances of the courtiers—until the only thing he felt was the desire to make something hurt that was not himself. He felt it like poison, like acid corroding his veins. His hands would not stop shaking.

A memory, suddenly, from when he was nine years old: Auguste had just turned twenty; he had agreed to take his little brother with him on a hunt. Laurent had felt so important, riding on his pony next to his brother, who smiled down at him and showed him how to track the deer. He was becoming a man, he’d thought, with the strength to do the things men did. The things Auguste did. They had raced to the mark; his brother let him win, although he didn’t realize it at the time. But when Laurent reached it, he had been unable to strike the killing blow. He drew back, suddenly sick, hit with the realization of what hunting meant. He had never seen death before. Auguste had to do it for him. When he cried, after, his brother had tried to comfort him. He still remembered the words: _there is sometimes strength, also, in holding a blow._

Laurent could remember how ashamed he had been, at the time. He had refused to go hunting again for an entire year, afterwards. The memory only made him angrier—what a stupid child he had been, how naïve. He had begged to be taken along, only to freeze when confronted with what he’d asked for. He hated the boy in his memory—as he hated his uncle, as he hated Damen, as he hated even Auguste, who was not there to tell him about holding blows. He clenched his hands into fists, and tried to ignore the trembling.

He could not beat the slave. Fine. But he would not roll over at his uncle’s chastisement, like an apologetic dog. He would not allow the insult to go unpunished. If only he could _think_ , if he could stop his thoughts from dissolving and spiraling out in all directions. He was furious, suddenly, with himself, for the wine that dulled his mind. Had he not sworn to himself, all those years ago—had he not promised himself to remain sharp, edged, with a mind unclouded by drink? Since that night when he was on the cusp of fifteen, when his voice had just begun to deepen in his chest, when his uncle had pulled back—

He pressed the palms of his hands to his temples, as if he could hold his mind in place through physical force. It was as if, even as it muddied the present, the wine pricked his past into sharper relief, making it impossible to ignore. Even the sour taste on the back of his tongue was linked, inextricably, with his uncle’s hand on his head. He would not _think_ about this, he must think instead about Damen, about how best to hurt without killing. Laurent knew so much about living in pain. 

And then it came to him, suddenly. The thoughts of his uncle’s—entertainments—mixed with spectacle, with punishment, with the burn of humiliation. It was Damen’s fault, wasn’t it? Damen, who had torn away his family and left Laurent alone, with his uncle’s cold gaze and warm hands? _Let him feel what I have felt_ came the desperate, directionless desire. Except Laurent knew, now what direction it could take.

***

He called the overseer—Radel, the man’s name was—to him the next morning, early in the day. The man bowed low to the ground upon entering.

“Your Highness?”

“I wish to make use of my slave, in the arena. Prepare him, and bring him to me.” Laurent kept his voice cool, nonchalant. The fury of the previous night had hardened to a point, like iron molded in fire to become a blade.

“Yes, my lord.”

"However, I do fear that the slave may be…unruly. Chalis, I expect, would be put to good use in the baths, to keep him relaxed and…docile. A double dose, I think. He’s a large man.”

Radel blinked, and nodded. “Of course, my lord.” Laurent dismissed him, then called in one of the guards at his door. It was the man called Orlant.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“Find Govart. Tell him I wish to speak with him.” A look of vague displeasure crossed Orlant’s face, but he hurried away at once. Laurent reclined in his chair, thinking.

Govart was a boulder of a man, with a flat, broken nose and a lank black cap of hair. He was heavily muscled; he took pleasure in cruelty. And he’d stick his prick in anything that breathed—perhaps breath was not even a requirement. He was the perfect person for the job Laurent had in mind.

He was also a puzzle. Removed from the King’s guard, the Regent still allowed him to remain at the castle, a brutish mercenary. Govart moved through the halls with a self-assured impertinence that Laurent could not entirely understand. There was something there—some secret, some piece of information. Something that the man was holding over his uncle’s head. Yet try as he might, Laurent could learn no more of the situation than that. It made his shoulders tense with frustration, thinking about it.

Govart did not bow when he entered. “What do you want?” He asked, bluntly.

“I require your services.” Laurent told him coolly. Govart leered at him, and Laurent did not attempt to hide his distaste. There was no love lost between them—but it was not love that Laurent needed to convince Govart to—assist him. Laurent withdrew a bag of coins from his pocket.

“Payment. To perform in the ring.”

Govart’s beady eyes blinked, dumbly, as if taking a moment to process the words. Then he sneered. “I’m no pet.”

“Certainly not,” Laurent said, “But I will pay you to fight, nevertheless. All you have to do is win—surely, you should be able to manage that.” When Govart continued to eye the bag of coin suspiciously, Laurent arched a brow.

“You get paid, and you get a fuck,” his words were precise, clipped, “If the offer doesn’t interest you, I can find someone else.” Govart scowled, but he accepted the money. He left without waiting for Laurent’s dismissal.

In his absence, Laurent examined the plan, turning it over, considering every possible outcome. The slave would lose the fight, almost certainly—even if he was evenly matched with Govart, the chalis would see to that. If, by some miracle, he managed to win, then Laurent had given him a powerful enemy—and arranged a slight against the Regent that left his own hands clean. He did not think too closely about the details of what he was engineering; he was no child, shying away from a deer in the woods. If he set out to hunt, he would finish the job. He hardened his resolve and stood, moving to finish his preparations.

***

The arena had existed, when Laurent was a young boy. It had been used, certainly, by his father’s court—perhaps even Auguste had attended shows. Pets and their performances were a longstanding tradition, in Vere. But the memories he had of the silk-draped theater were all from his uncle’s court. And it was different, somehow—colder, harsher. The weapons, Laurent was sure, had been a new addition during the Regency.

The first time Laurent attended the entertainments himself was with his uncle, after he had just turned fourteen. He remembered shifting uncomfortably, unable to decipher the sticky glut of feelings that curled in his stomach as he watched the writhing bodies of the pets and spectators. He had not known, then, about the staging, the payment, the instruction of it all. He had not fully understood that what he was seeing was a performance. It felt too real. He was still a child, still deciphering his own budding desires. To be faced, suddenly, with the debauchery of all the court was overwhelming. As they watched two men fucking, his uncle had placed his hand on Laurent’s knee.

The Regent would not be attending the performance tonight. He was occupied in meetings, discussing the treaty with Akielos. Laurent had very pointedly not been invited to attend. So he sat alone, on blue silk draped with starbursts, surveying the room. The bejeweled pets glittered and simpered for their masters, who looked back at them with esurient faces. Nicaise was there, with Councillor Audin. For a second, Laurent was dizzy with déjà vu—like a man out of time, staring at his own past seated on brightly colored cushions. But he collected himself quickly, and cast his gaze elsewhere. Clothing was unlaced, hands and fingers moved across skin—it was the same sex-drenched, opulent atmosphere that Laurent remembered. It was, he thought, incredibly boring. Gold and jewels would not transform the fucking into anything different, anything new. It was all the same, at its core. He tried not to think about his uncle’s hand on his knee, or Nicaise, seated a few feet away.

And then the heavy, gilded doors were pushed open, and Laurent saw his own men enter. One of them was guiding the slave, led by a chain attached to the collar around his neck. Damen stared at the room as if taken aback, like a country virgin. As if the Regent hadn’t been presented with twelve slaves, trained in the minute details of the art of fucking. As if that wasn’t performance, too.

The guards threw Damen down at the floor in front of Laurent’s feet, cinching the chain to a link in the ground. Laurent kept his expression pleasant and neutral, but he could not entirely hide the loathing that caused his heart to beat more quickly.

“You have a cut on your lip. Someone hit you. Oh, that’s right, I recall. You stood still and let him. Does it hurt?”

Damen stared up at him with open dislike, curling his fingers into fists. And then, deliberately, uncurling them.

“We must have some conversation. You see: I have asked after your health, and now I am reminiscing. I fondly remember our night together, Have you been thinking about me this morning?”

Still, the man remained silent. Lauren continued, “My uncle interrupted us just as things were getting interesting. It left me curious—you did something to make Kastor hate you. What was it?” _Show me how to hurt you._

Damen’s head jerked up, a slight furrow in his brow. “Hate me?” The reaction came, as the others had come previously, without control. There was no finesse to the way he spoke—Laurent wondered if all Akielons were like this. Saying the first thing that came to mind, tactless and naively open. It made things almost too easy.

“Did you think he sent you to me out of love? What did you do to him? Beat him in a tournament? Or fuck his mistress—what was her name?” As if he didn’t remember the way it had made Damen flinch, “Jokaste.” But he didn’t flinch this time.

There was a memory, hissing at the edges of Laurent’s mind. His uncle’s voice, overheard, speaking softly to a courtier— _he always was so_ fond _of Auguste._ The words slipped from Laurent’s mouth like water, “Maybe you strayed after he fucked you.”

Naked revulsion colored Damen’s face. “ _No._ ” Again, as if the word was pulled out of him. Laurent felt perverse satisfaction twist in his gut.

“So that’s it. Kastor mounts his soldiers like horses in the yard. Did you grit your teeth and take it because he was the King, or did you like it? You really,” and now it was Laurent who found himself being too honest, “have no idea how happy that idea makes me. It’s perfect: a man who holds you down while he fucks you, with a cock like a bottle and a beard like my uncle’s.”

By now, Damen had drawn back—as if physical distance could stop the impact of the words. The chain was taught between them. It was gratifying.

Further conversation was prevented by the approach of a select group of courtiers—Guion, dressed in heavy dark clothing, Vannes, eyes flashing and head held high, and Estienne, with his peaked nose and slippery smiles. Laurent turned to greet them with an angelic countenance.

“It’s so rare to see you at these entertainments, Your Highness,” said Vannes.

“I was in the mood to enjoy myself,” said Laurent.

“Your new pet is causing quite a stir.” Vannes walked around Damen as she spoke, “He’s nothing like the slaves that Kastor gifted to your uncle. I wonder if Your Highness has had the chance to see them? They’re much more…”

“I’ve seen them,” Lauren interrupted her thought. He had—shortly after their arrival, when the slaves were presented to his uncle. It was sickening; he knew Akielos was a barbaric country, but few practices were more gruesome than this. To strip the soul out of a person completely, to mold him from youth into something pliant, eager, desperate to please—many of them were of a similar age to Laurent. They stared at the floor with wide, wet eyes, like overgrown children. Laurent wondered, vaguely, what his uncle would do with them. If only there was a way to preserve the body in the same way the Akielon slave trainers stunted the mind, the Regent might actually be pleased with the gift.

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“Kastor sends two dozen slaves trained to worm their way into the bedchambers of the most powerful members of the court. I’m overjoyed.”

“What an entirely pleasant sort of espionage,” said Vannes, arranging herself comfortably, “But the Regent keeps the slaves on a tight leash, I hear, and has not loaned them out at all. Regardless, I highly doubt we’ll see them in the ring. They didn’t quite have the—élan.”

Estienne sniffed and gathered his pet to him, a delicate flower who looked like he would bruise if you so much as brushed a petal. “Not everyone has your taste for pets who can sweep the ring in competitions, Vannes. I, for one, am relieved to hear that all the slaves in Akielos are not like this one. They’re not, are they?” This last a little nervously.

“No.” Councillor Guion spoke with authority. “None of them are. Among the Akielon nobility, dominance is a sign of status. The slaves are all submissive. I suppose it’s intended as a compliment to you, Your Highness, to imply that you can break a slave as strong as this one—”

No. It wasn’t. His uncle was torturing him, hoping enough pain would goad him into making a mistake. On Kastor’s part, it was a backhanded insult to Vere and—what? Punishment? Laurent wondered, briefly, for the first time about what had convinced Kastor to send his half brother to Vere as a slave.

“—as for his provenance, they have arena matches regularly—sword, dagger, and spear—I’d guess he was one of the display fighters. It’s truly barbaric. They wear almost nothing during the sword fights, and they fight the wrestling matches nude.”

“Like pets,” Estienne said thinly, laughing.

The courtiers turned to gossip, which quickly turned to Guion’s recent ambassadorial duties.

“This new alliance with Akielos can’t sit easily with you, Your Highness,” said Estienne. “Everyone knows how you feel about that country. Their barbaric practices—and of course what happened at Marlas—”

The space around them was suddenly very quiet.

“My uncle is Regent,” Laurent said.

“You are twenty-one in spring.”

“Then you would do well to be prudent in my presence as well as my uncle’s.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said Estienne, bowing briefly and moving off to one side, acknowledging it for the dismissal it was.

In the ring, the show was beginning.

Laurent watched as two men entered and stood with slight wariness, gazing at each other in the manner of competitors. One was a brunet, the other a sandy blonde—neither was a pet that Laurent recognized. But then, as Vannes had observed, he rarely came to watch the competitions in the arena. There was tension, now, in the air, as the pets were stripped of their clothes. Laurent plucked a refreshment from a nearby tray and turned to Damen, who was staring down at the ring with his brow furrowed.

“Sweetmeat?” said Laurent. He held the confection delicately, between thumb and forefinger, just far enough out of reach that the chained man would have to rise up onto his knees in order to eat it from Laurent’s fingertips. Damen jerked his head back, like someone who has just realized he has leaned in too close to a flame.

“Stubborn,” Laurent remarked mildly, bringing the treat to his own lips instead, and eating it. It tasted of nothing—powder and air.

A range of equipment was on display alongside the ring: long gilt poles, various restraints, a series of golden balls such as a child might play with, a little pile of silver bells, long whips, the handles decorated with ribbons and tassels. The entertainments in the ring, Laurent well knew, were varied and inventive. Tonight’s main act, however, was simple.

Laurent had seen it all before. The struggle, the performance. He forced his mind blank. It was all the same thing, all rooted in the same fight over who could take more. He maintained his graceful sprawl, balancing one wrist on the armrest of the box seat. His eyes flickered obstinately between the ring and the man at his feet.

He was coming to expect Damen’s open displays of emotion, but it still felt incongruous here, among the flushed faces and heavy breathing of the audience. The wide eyes, the tilt of his chin, the curl of his mouth—all displayed shock, disgust, and something that a more naïve man might have called concern. It irritated Laurent. This was a killer, from a country of killers, where they celebrated violence. That he should recoil so openly from the performance of the ring only made Laurent think of how he himself had recoiled, initially, as a boy. How he could not recoil, now, as a man. Naivety rarely went unpunished, in Vere.

Below, servants were helping the pets out of the arena. Laurent watched as the blonde’s master fussed over him solicitously, and gifted him with a long diamond earring. He lifted his fingers in a pre-arranged signal to the guard, and saw Damen’s shoulders tense.

The guards clamped down on his shoulders. The chain was detached from the collar, and when he remained immobile they pointed their swords at his back, which proved adequate motivation to move him forward.

“You kept pestering me to put a pet in the ring,” Laurent said to Vannes and the other surrounding courtiers, “I thought it was time I indulged you.”

As they stripped Damen of his slave garments, Laurent saw him shake his head slightly, as if disoriented. _The chalis,_ he thought, and allowed the cruel smile to coil at the corners of his mouth. Even from his position in the audience, Laurent could make out the remnants of bruises against the olive skin. There was a flicker of misgiving, in the back of his mind—he stamped it out. This was justice. This was punishment. It would be only a fraction of the pain that Laurent had suffered, after Auguste’s death.

Govart entered the ring. Laurent watched Damen size him up, carefully. There was some inner working behind the eyes that Laurent did not know how to interpret; Damen’s face hardened as he turned to face his opponent. It was the kind of intense, heated determination that had been in his gaze on that first night, the fire that had burned under the helm at Marlas. It felt as if the entire room was holding its breath. They locked arms, and the show began.

Govart was a mountain of a man. Yet Damen matched him, strength for strength, muscles bunched and straining against skin. There was no sensuality to it. They were not delicate pets, performing for the pleasure of their masters. They were two warriors, each determined to win this fight. The blows were hard, and fast, and vicious. Govart was exploiting every weak spot he found.

And yet the first advantage was Damen’s. Outweighed and fighting, Laurent knew, the effects of chalis, his skill was great enough that he was able to gain a hold on his opponent. Laurent wondered, for a moment, if he had underestimated the man.

And then the hold was broken, and the fight continued. Damen had the advantage, then Govart, then back to Damen again. And then, suddenly, Govart had him on his back, with his hands pressing down at the gold collar around his neck. Laurent realized he had been holding his breath, and he released it—the end was in sight. It had gone exactly according to plan. He did not know why he was unable to dispel the tension in his body—why he still felt sharp, and edged.

He saw Damen strain against the hold with what was, surely, the last of his strength. An arm, miraculously, came free. He drove his fist sideways, so that the heavy gold cuff on his wrist slammed hard into Govart’s temple, with the sick sound of an iron bar impacting on flesh and bone. A moment later, he followed up—unnecessarily, barbarically—with his right fist, and smashed his stunned, swaying opponent into the dirt. Govart collapsed on top of him, and Damen shoved the limp body away, coughing.

It was suddenly a challenge to maintain the bored expression. The skill, the strength, the sheer force of will—that hate curled in Laurent’s belly sunk somehow deeper, as if to infuse his entire body. He watched Damen begin the slow process of rising to his knees and from there to his feet. He made no move towards Govart’s prone body—did not seem even to consider the possibility.

The atmosphere was heavy, the displeasure of the crowd palpable. No one wanted to see an Akielon triumph over a Veretian. Least of all Laurent. Damen seemed to realize this, casting his exhausted gaze out over the audience of courtiers and pets until he found the prince. He moved forward, and dropped to his knees.

“I fight in your service, Your Highness. I exist only to please my Prince. May my victory reflect on your glory.” He was exhausted, clearly. He could barely keep himself propped up on his knees. And yet even the deference in his tone was—incongruous. Bitten back, somehow. Laurent felt as if his blood was boiling.

He extended his right leg slightly, the tip of his well-turned boot presenting itself to Damen.

“Kiss it,” he said. His voice was cold and immaculate as ice.

He saw the tension, as it hit Damen’s body. The internal struggle—tamping down on revulsion, trying hard to keep his face blank. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the smooth leather with unhurried respect, as a vassal might kiss the ring of a liege lord. His lips brushed against the toe-tip, so light that Laurent could barely feel it.

Councillor Guion spoke up, “You’ve worked miracles. That slave was completely unmanageable aboard the ship.”

“Every dog can be brought to heel,” said Laurent.

“Magnificent!” This time it was the smooth voice of—

“Councillor Audin,” Laurent said. He watched the man approach, Nicaise at his side. On loan, perhaps. Laurent wondered if his uncle had begun to grow tired—were the first signs of age finally showing, on the body of the boy before him?

“What a victory! Your slave deserves a reward. Let me offer one to him.”

“A reward.” Laurent repeated, flatly.

“A fight like that—truly magnificent—but with no climax—allow me to offer him a pet, in place of his intended conquest. I think,” Audin continued, “that we are all eager to see him _really_ perform.”

Laurent’s chest was a stone. Nicaise was breathing heavily, white-faced as he stared at Damen. He was hardly taller than the man’s hip. Yet his jaw was set—contrary as always. Laurent turned back to Audin, prepared to offer an excuse. But before he had the chance to open his mouth, the slave spoke.

“Do whatever you want to me. I’m not going to rape a child.”

He was looking at Laurent as he said it. Exhaustion was drawn across every line of his body, yet his chin jutted out defiantly. Laurent felt as if he had been slapped, realizing that Damen thought he would be capable of giving that order—but why shouldn’t he, when his uncle’s court treated the matter so flippantly?

“I’m not a child.” Nicaise protested, sulkily. Damen turned to look at him incredulously, and the boy's face went white as a sheet. Laurent looked between them, frowning. He felt a stab of annoyance that this—this _murderer_ would take the moral high ground. How could he kill, unthinkingly, unfeelingly—how could he celebrate the death he caused, take up the nickname “prince-killer” willingly and wholeheartedly—yet remain the only person in the entire palace that had ever, in Laurent's memory, expressed open disgust at the idea of fucking a child?

“Why not?” Laurent asked, abruptly.

“ _Why not?”_ said Damen. _“I don’t share your craven habit of hitting only those who cannot hit back, and I take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself.”_ The words came out in Akielon, as if he was driven past reason by his rage. Laurent stared at him, and he stared defiantly back. It was all wrong.

“Your Highness?” said Audin, confused.

Laurent turned to him eventually. “The slave is saying that if you want the pet unconscious, split in half, or dead of fright, then you will need to make other arrangements. He declines his services.”

He pushed up out of the box seat so quickly that Damen was forced to stumble backwards—Laurent strode past, ignoring him. To one of the servants he said, “Have my horse brought to the north courtyard. I’m going for a ride.” He did not look back as he left the room.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning again - this is the chapter with the baths + the cross; I don't go into detail, but please be aware that it deals with sexual harassment + violence.

He rode hard across the grounds. The sun was low in the sky; colors bled together on the horizon. He could feel the powerful muscles of the horse beneath him contract and release as the ground blurred past. The words of the slave kept ringing in his head— _I’m not going to rape a child._

It was not what Laurent had expected. None of it was as he had expected. His father’s court had not allowed child pets—it was not quite taboo, did not garner the vitriolic disgust elicited by bastards. More the polite embarrassment two people might feel if one discovered he had forgotten the other’s name; unintentional disrespect, a sense of being out of step. Better to avoid it altogether, and allow men to enjoy what they pleased in their own homes. Things had changed, of course, with his uncle’s Regency. Most of the courtiers did not bat an eye, when it happened. Those who were taken aback did nothing to show it; it would not be prudent, when the Regent himself favored boys. _Favored—_ Laurent shook his head. As if it were a simple preference, and not some insatiable, perverted need.

But Damen did nothing to hide his disgust. It was tactless, stupid, disrespectful—it was unfair. The words Laurent had longed to speak for years, the words he must dance carefully around and coat in honeyed lies—falling without hesitation from the mouth of a slave. The mouth of a man who viewed Laurent’s entire country with revulsion.

He thought, as he often did, of Auguste. He recalled the day that his brother had told him of his preference for women. They were alone, in the castle’s library. The guards posted at the door were well out of earshot. Auguste had just finished reading Laurent a story, about a man who saved a woman from a high tower by tearing the stone apart until the entire structure fell, and caught her in his arms before she hit the ground. Laurent was still a boy, and he reacted with distaste.

“A man and a woman?” He asked, “But were they married?”

“They got married after he saved her.”

Laurent frowned. He was only beginning to understand the more mysterious workings of the world, those involving bodies and how they might twine together. But he had learned, from a very young age, that princes should not spend time, alone, with women. There was no chaperone, when the man in the story saved the woman from her tower. Auguste, on the cusp of manhood, looked troubled by Laurent’s expression.

“I prefer women, little brother.” He had smiled, knocked his elbow into Laurent’s—but his eyes were nervous, and his voice was hushed. Laurent had stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“But—you haven’t—”

Auguste smiled, a little guiltily, and ruffled Laurent’s hair. “Don’t worry. I promise not to sire any bastards. You don’t have to look so disgusted.”

“But—it’s barbaric.” Laurent thought of Akielos, where the women walked naked in the streets and the men took them like animals. He had never visited, of course—relations between the two nations had always been tense. 

Auguste shook his head good naturedly. “Just because the court turns its nose up at something, little brother, does not make it wrong—just as the court’s approval does not always make something right. It’s the role of a king to work out the two for himself.”

“Well,” Laurent sniffed haughtily, “You can be king and get heirs, then. I’ll stay here, with my books.” Auguste had roared with laughter at that—and had then proceeded to chase Laurent through the tall shelves, pretending to be a barbarian.

His brother had been right, of course. Laurent had stopped measuring morality by the court’s standards many years ago. But even Auguste, who was untouchable—the crown prince, the golden child—had to navigate the strictures of court etiquette in his time. It was not Laurent’s fault that he could not speak openly against his uncle’s practices. He did not know why there was a strange sense of guilt, lingering from the way Damen had turned to him, defiantly, expecting Laurent to agree with Councillor Audin. He felt sick to his stomach.

 _“I don’t share your craven habit of hitting only those who cannot hit back, and I take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself.”_ Laurent gritted his teeth, resentment bubbling as he thought of the slave’s words. No pleasure in hurting those weaker than himself? As if the victory celebrations of the Akielon army had not been so jubilant that they carried across the fields at Marlas, so that Laurent, alone in his tent, could hear the distant cries of _Prince-Killer! Damianos!_ As if war was anything else, anything more noble, than pleasure in hurting weaker men.

It was insult upon insult, for Damen to act as if he was a good man. A better man, than the Veretian courtiers who stood silent and watched as Nicaise made his way through the arena. As if the Prince-Killer only hit those who could hit back. _He kept slaves,_ Laurent thought, furiously, _his entire country keeps slaves._ The seed of doubt that had been planted, the sharp sting of guilt, were forcibly smothered. _So he draws the line at fucking boys—fine_. Damen was still a murderer, a savage, a brute. A man who took pleasure in killing. His stupidly noble performance at the arena did nothing to change that. _Nothing._

***

Nicaise was waiting, when Laurent returned. He sneered as he watched the prince dismount and hand off the reins to a stable hand.

“Dead of fright, split in half—your clumsy attempts at chivalry are insulting. I’m not a child.” It was a repetition of his protest in the arena. Laurent saw past it. He smiled drily, and raised a brow.

“Don’t let my uncle hear you say that.”

Nicaise flushed. “He sent me to get you.”

“Oh?”

“You’re to join us for dinner. He has news to share with you.” They were walking back towards the castle now, Laurent slowing discreetly so that Nicaise did not fall out of step. The boy wore a self-satisfied expression; clearly, he already knew what the Regent had to say. He was smug in his privileged knowledge—it would make him feel special, important, that the Regent had told him something before the prince. His uncle was so good at that—making them feel special.

“And if I’m not interested in his news?” _It isn’t important, whatever he told you. You’re naïve to think you share his confidences._

“He told me you’d say that. He said perhaps he would send Govart to fetch you, if you insist on being childish. I’m hoping you do—Govart’s really quite upset with you.” The tone was needling, flippant. But there was a warning behind it.

“Hmm, yes. I suppose you make for much more delightful company. Lead on, then.”

The news, as it turned out, was quite interesting indeed. His uncle would ride to Chastillon in six days. Would Laurent care to join, he asked. No, Laurent demurred, he knew how his uncle enjoyed privacy at Chastillon, and he would not want to intrude. Nicaise flushed, frowning, at the answer—but then carefully replaced his haughty expression. It made Laurent’s heart clench, hard, like a fist. The courtiers seated near them seemed to think nothing of the exchange.

Before they finished dining, his uncle admonished Laurent once more to treat the slave well. This time, the courtiers listened with bated breath. News of the fight at the arena had spread quickly. Laurent could sense his uncle’s displeasure, but there was no outright fault to be exploited—after all, he had only sent his slave to participate in the entertainments of the Regent’s court.

As his servants undressed him that night, untying the laces of his jacket with quick fingers, Laurent turned the information over in his head. He would have a week, alone. A week, without the heavy eye of his uncle at his back. Here, then, was his opportunity. He would prove to himself that Damen was exactly what he appeared to be, and nothing more. For all his talk of honor and craven habits, he was a man like any other. He would treat Laurent like all men treated Laurent. And once he had dispelled with his foolish, lingering doubts, Laurent could sink his teeth into vengeance once more. He lay in bed, awake, for a long while, spinning together the plan.

***

Outside, through the obstruction of the screened doors, Laurent could hear Radel’s voice as he said, briefly, “Today, in the baths, you will serve.”

“Serve?” said Damen. He sounded exactly as Laurent had expected he would—caught off-guard. Laurent watched as the doors opened and the guards pushed him inside.

It was a carefully constructed plan. Build the routine, lull the slave into boredom, allow him to make clumsy attempts at learning the machinations of the Veretian court. Allow the sting of the beating and the arena to fade. And then, once his uncle had left, Laurent himself would become the bait. Since he was thirteen, men had looked at him with hungry eyes. By now, he was used to it—the endless speculations about his chastity, the wolfish desire of those who whispered, behind his back, about what it would be like to get a leg over on the prince. If Damen was really so different from the courtiers of Vere, here was his chance to prove it.

He watched the man stumble forward as the doors were shut behind him, looking apprehensively at his surroundings. There was initial relief, at the emptiness he encountered—then wariness, as his eyes landed on Laurent. He lifted a hand to the collar around his neck, as if by instinct. Laurent could see the desire for revenge. He seemed almost unable to believe that he was unrestrained and that they were alone together.

Laurent stared back, from where he was reclined against the tiled wall, without trying to hide his dislike. “So my slave is bashful in the arena. Don’t you fuck boys in Akielos?”

“I’m quite cultured. Before I rape anyone, I first check to see if their voice has broken,” said Damen.

Laurent smiled. The man was cleverer, perhaps, than he had initially given him credit for. Alright. He could adjust his expectations accordingly.

“Did you fight at Marlas?”

The question was a trap. He kept his voice pleasant, conversational. Damen said: “Yes.”

“How many did you kill?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lost count?”

Pleasantly, as one might inquire about the weather.

Laurent said, “The barbarian won’t fuck boys. He prefers to wait a few years and then use a sword in place of his cock.”

Damen flushed. “It was battle. There was death on both sides.”

“Oh, yes. We killed a few of you, too. I would like to have killed more, but my uncle is unaccountably clement with vermin. You’ve met him.”

There was unadorned hatred on Damen’s face. “Have you waited six days to talk to me about your uncle?” He said.

Laurent rearranged himself against the wall into a position that was even more indolently comfortable, forcing his limbs to relax through a great effort of will.

“My uncle has ridden to Chastillon. He hunts boar. He likes the chase. He likes the kill, too. It’s a day’s ride, after which he and his party will stay five nights at the old keep. His subjects know better than to bother him with missives from the palace. I have waited six days so that you and I could be alone.” His voice was all sugar and overdone sweetness.

“Alone, with your men guarding the doors,” said Damen. He was not so dense that he could not see the threat.

“Are you going to complain again that you’re not allowed to hit back?” said Laurent. His voice sweetened further, “Don’t worry, I won’t hit you unless I have a good reason.” _You're going to give me a good reason._

“Did I seem worried?” said Damen.

“You seemed a little agitated,” said Laurent, “in the ring. I liked it best when you were on your hands and knees. Cur. Do you think I will tolerate insolence? By all means, try my patience.”

At that, Damen remained silent. Laurent studied him; he could feel the steam, curling heat against his skin. The air between them was charged, dangerous. There was nothing of submissiveness in Damen’s posture, no softness in his voice. He spoke to Laurent like an equal. He did not seem to realize how much he gave away.

“Shall I tell you the part you liked?” asked Laurent.

“There was nothing I _liked._ ”

“You’re lying. You liked knocking that man down, and you liked it when he didn’t get up. You’d like to hurt me, wouldn’t you? Is it very difficult to control yourself? Your little speech about fair play fooled me about as much as your show of obedience. You have worked out, with whatever native intelligence you possess, that it serves your interests to appear bot civilized and dutiful. But the one thing you’re hot for is a fight.”

“Are you here to goad me into one?” said Damen. His voice rose up from deep within his chest. His entire body was tense.

Laurent pushed off the wall.

“I don’t roll in the sty with swine,” he said, coolly, “I’m here to bathe. Have I said something astonishing? Come here.”

The wary confusion was back. He came to stand two steps away. Laurent looked at him, assessing. Damen was smart enough, at least, to understand that he had no chance of survival if he raised hands to the prince. Laurent was confident that there would be no outright violence. But the man was not smart enough to see the entire picture. Laurent felt satisfied that he was still in control.

“Strip,” he said.

Damen unpinned his garments and let them fall, without hesitation. In Akielos, Laurent knew, there was little stigma surrounding nudity, even amongst the nobility. Fitting, for a country of animals. Laurent did not react as he looked at the man who stood now, naked, before him. In another part of his mind, he could recognize that Damen was well-built—powerful and sharply sculpted. He had commanding features—dark, flashing eyes, a straight, proud nose and full lips. His skin was olive-toned, warm and smooth, interrupted only by two puckered scars. One lay below his collarbone, and the other, further down, across his abdomen. His hair was a dark mess of curls, barely brushing the tops of his shoulders. He was handsome; but the disgust that colored Laurent’s every feeling towards the man made even this fact appalling.

“Undress me,” said Laurent.

Damen stepped forward, then paused, uncertain. He looked at the many laces as if unsure where to start. Laurent extended a coolly peremptory hand, palm up, to indicate where he might begin. The tight little lacings on the underside of his wrist continued about halfway up his arm and were of the same dark blue as the garment. It took several minutes for Damen to untie them; the laces were small, and he struggled to pull each one individually through its hole. It was satisfying, to watch the Prince-Killer as he was thwarted by simple clothing. Laurent lowered one arm, trailing laces, and extended the other.

When all the various lacings were untied, Damen drew the garment off; dismay crossed his face when it was revealed to be an outer layer only. He looked down at the laced white shirt, pants, and boots, hesitating.

Laurent arched his brows. “Am I here to wait on the modesty of a servant?”

Damen frowned, and knelt. He drew off the boots; the pants were next. He stepped back when it was done. The unlaced shirt had slipped slightly, and Laurent could feel the curl of steam against his exposed shoulder. He reached behind himself and drew it off.

He stood, naked, coolly immodest. He watched Damen’s eyes flicker over his body, but did not react except to raise his chin a fraction, arrogantly.

“Wash me.”

All the appurtenances had been carefully laid out: a fat-bellied silver pitcher, soft cloths, and bottles of oil and frothy liquid soap, made from clear spun glass, their stoppers capped in silver. The one that Damen picked up depicted a vine heavy with grapes. He unstopped the little bottle with a tug against the resistant suction. He filled the silver pitcher. Laurent turned, presenting his back.

The water was hot. Damen poured it across his skin, and then began to apply the soap. His hands were rough—callused and warm. Laurent was not sure why that surprised him. They moved from shoulders to lower back. The excess water splashed, hotly, on the ground. The air around them burned with steam.

Laurent could hear the change in Damen’s breathing, when it came. His own breathing remained carefully steady as he worked to control the tension that made him want, desperately, to close in on himself. He reminded himself, forcefully, of why he had put himself in this position. He knew that he was in control—that this was all according to his own plan—and yet there was a childish panic in his chest, beating in time with his heart. _Don’t touch me,_ he wanted to say, but didn’t. He was the one who had ordered the touch.

Damen’s hands moved further down. Laurent had to bite his lip to keep from pulling away. No one had touched him this intimately in years. He could not allow his thoughts to go down the road of what had happened, the last time someone had touched him like this. He would bear this—was strong enough to subject himself to this. He was not a child.

He felt the slowing of Damen’s hands, the change in the quality of the air. There was a wild spike of fear, of disappointment—but he banished it. This was exactly what he had expected, was it not? The slave, for all his heroic speeches, was alike to all other men.

“Don’t be presumptuous,” said Laurent, coldly.

“Too late, sweetheart,” said Damen. His voice was rough.

Disgust twisted Laurent’s gut. He turned, and with calm precision unleashed a backhanded blow that had easily enough force to bloody a mouth, but Damen’s hand darted, with surprising speed, and caught Laurent’s wrist before the blow connected. _Fast reflexes,_ Laurent thought, numbly.

They were motionless like that for a moment. Damen looked down into Laurent’s face, flushed with heat, and when Laurent made a little spasming motion to free himself, he felt Damen’s grip tighten on his wrist. He could do nothing but watch as Damen’s gaze wandered downwards, appreciatively. Laurent stared back in cold outrage.

He could not hold back the tension any longer—he was suddenly thirteen, and the fear was a twisting thing in his chest. He looked at the man in front of him and realized, abruptly, that he would not be able to stop him if he moved to do more than look. That he was not able to stop him in the first place, from looking.

It was a battle to keep his voice bored, drawling. He would not let Damen see his fear. “But my voice has broken. That was the only prerequisite, wasn’t it?”

Damen released his grip, as though burned. A moment later, the blow he had thwarted landed, with all the force Laurent could manage, smashing across his mouth.

“ _Get him out of here,”_ said Laurent. He did not even have to raise his voice. The doors swung open, and the guards pulled Damen roughly backwards.

“Put him on the cross. Wait for me to arrive.”

“Your Highness, regarding the slave, the Regent instructed—”

“You can do as I say, or you can go there in his place. Choose. Now.”

There was no further prevarication. “Yes, Your Highness.” The guards pulled Damen away, closing the doors behind them and leaving Laurent, blissfully, alone.

When he was sure they were gone, Laurent swept his arm across the table, sending the pitcher and the delicate bottles crashing against the wet floor. His breathing was rapid and shallow; he screwed his eyes shut and pressed the palm of one hand into his forehead. He could feel his thoughts splintering, spiraling, as the past howled from the recesses of his mind. He would not—succumb to this. He could master it. He was not, he told himself viciously, a _child._ Everything that had just happened was no more than his own engineering, and he had gotten what he wanted. The barbarian had proved himself barbaric. Yet still, he felt acutely out of control.

The scene replayed, again, in his mind. The sudden force with which Damen had arrested his wrist, the vicelike grip that kept him trapped. The impudent way his eyes and hands had moved across Laurent’s body, sending him back in time, until he was a boy once more at Chastillon. The anger with Damen bled into anger with himself—he reminded himself, once more, that he had come to the baths knowing exactly what to expect. It was ridiculous, to be this shaken by it. Yet when a servant came to finish the service previously interrupted, Laurent sent him away, and finished bathing alone.

***

When Laurent approached the cross, he was cool and composed once more. His eyes swept over the field, where Damen had been strapped face-first to the wooden flogging post, with his arms spread and shackled to the cross section. As Laurent entered, one of the men began testing the lash in his hands, calmly, with his face wiped blank of expression. Laurent took up a position against the wall in front of Damen, where he would see the man’s face every time the lash struck. His blood was ice in his veins. His stomach was a stone. Damen had been straining against the restraints, but when his eyes met Laurent’s, he stopped.

A man approached Damen with a piece of wood covered in soft brown leather. He lifted it to his face.

“Open your mouth.”

Damen obeyed, and the man tied the leather strap behind his head to prevent it from falling out. It was not a gag—it was a kindness; something to bite down on to help him endure the pain. Laurent wouldn’t think of gagging his slave for this. He wanted to hear the man scream. “How many stripes?” Asked the man with the lash, moving to stand behind Damen.

“I’m not sure yet,” said Laurent, “I’m sure I’ll decide eventually. You can begin.”

There was the soft whistle of the whip moving through the air, then the crack, lash against flesh. Damen jerked against the restraints as the lash struck his shoulder. Laurent watched his face twist in pain. He watched, again and again, as the lash fell on Damen’s back. At first, Laurent could see how he tried to steel himself, but always the pain broke over his face. Eventually he pressed his forehead to the wood of the post and just—took it. His body shuddered against the cross. His eyes screwed shut, and sweat broke across his brow. He did not scream at first—but then he did, seeming to lose control of himself—and then the screams turned to groans, as if he had not even the strength to draw air into his lungs. Laurent watched it all. The lash was wet with blood.

Finally, he raised his hand, and the blows stopped. One of the men moved forward and untied the leather around his mouth. Damen seemed unaware, at first, of what was happening—but Laurent watched as clarity returned to his eyes, now open. His chest was heaving, his hair was soaked with sweat. Laurent saw as he shifted the tension that had come over his body, testing the muscles in his back. Pain washed over his face once more, and he went still.

Laurent stepped forward, standing a single pace away. He looked down at Damen’s back, which now resembled a slab of raw meat, bloody, from a butcher’s table.

“I should have done this to you the day you arrived,” said Laurent. “It’s exactly what you deserve.” _Less than you deserve._

“Why didn’t you?” Damen said. All pretense of obedience and duty was abandoned, as if some outer layer had been stripped away, “You are cold-blooded and honorless. What held back someone like you?” He spoke so often of honor, for a man who had bathed his own hands in blood.

“I’m not sure,” said Laurent, in a detached voice. _My uncle,_ he did not say. “I was curious what kind of man you were,” _I know exactly what kind of man you are,_ “I see we have stopped too early. Again.” This last directed towards the man with the lash.

“Your Highness, I’m not certain he’ll survive another round.”

Anger, vicious, spiked through Laurent. The man was looking between the prince and the slave with concern, holding the whip limply at his side.

“I think he will. Why don’t we make a wager?” Laurent spoke again in that cold, flat voice. “A gold coin says he lives. If you want to win it from me, you’ll have to exert yourself.”

He faced Damen once more, looking at nothing else as the lash fell, over and over again. The clarity fled from his eyes—his face was nothing but pain. Yet he still clung to consciousness with perverse tenacity, gritting his teeth and shuddering. Laurent only raised his hand to stop the punishment when the tension began to bleed out of Damen’s body, and he went limp. Laurent wanted him conscious.

“I was on the field at Marlas,” said Laurent. It took a moment for the words to hit—when they did, something changed in Damen’s face.

“They wouldn’t let me near the front. I never had the chance to face him. I used to wonder what I’d say to him if I did. What I’d do.” The words were raw—the most honest thing Laurent had said since he first laid eyes on Damen, shackled to the floor. _This is what I would do_ , he thought, _this, and still, we are not even._ He could not stop the cold fury that bled into his tone, “How dare any one of you speak the word _honor_? I know your kind. A Veretian who treats honorably with an Akielon will be gutted with his own sword.” _Because that’s what you did, isn’t it? Your own blade not enough—prince-killer, brother-killer—_ “It’s your countryman who taught me that,” _It’s you who taught me that,_ “You can thank him for the lesson.” _You deserve this. You should be dead, instead of him._

“ _Thank who?_ ” Damen pushed the words out, as if it took all the will he had left in his body to speak.

“Damianos, the dead Prince of Akielos,” said Laurent. “The man who killed my brother.”


	5. Chapter Four

“Don’t let him die yet,” was the last thing Laurent said, before he left Damen at the cross. To the guards that started to follow after him he said, “Leave me. Bring my horse to the North courtyard.” They hesitated, which drove Laurent to the edge of hysterical laughter. Who was left in the castle, that he needed protection from? His uncle would be six days yet at Chastillon, and the only other man who might want to kill him lay bleeding out in the grass.

He dressed, alone, in riding leathers. When the guards, waiting in the courtyard, saw him, they looked uneasy.

“How long should we expect to wait, Your Highness?”

“Don’t wait.” Laurent said, shortly.

As he rode, he allowed his thoughts to sink into the past. The battle of Marlas six years ago had ended with twinned, bloody tragedies for Vere. An Akielon arrow, a stray lucky arrow on the wind, had taken Laurent’s father—the Veretian king—in the throat. Laurent was only thirteen, but he had been training hard for a year to convince his father that he was capable of fighting with the rest of the army. He remembered the shock, when they carried his shrouded body through the camp; Laurent’s world had fractured. He was never the favored son—that was Auguste—and he did not often spend time with his father. Laurent had been content to remain in the background of the King’s life, at the periphery of his vision, gifted sometimes with warm, genuine smiles and strong hands clapped against his back. He was a distant parent, but loving nonetheless. And he had always been an immovable pillar of Laurent’s life, something that the boy took for granted. That the King was dead was unthinkable.

Yet it was true. The men bearing the body had lain it, grim-faced, in the King’s tent. Laurent stood, shaking, next to his uncle, whose mouth was a hard line. And then Auguste had entered. He said nothing, only looked down at the shroud before gathering Laurent, firmly, in his arms and pulling him into his chest. Laurent remembered crying then, finally. Auguste’s clothes had been stained with blood.

There had been no time to officially crown his older brother king. Auguste had made almost immediately to return to battle. _The men need me,_ he said. Laurent followed his brother back to his tent, where he had begged him not to go. _I need you,_ he said. Auguste’s final words to him rang in his head, clear as a bell, as if he was riding alongside Laurent now.

_Do not worry, little brother. I could never leave you alone._

Laurent had waited for hours in Auguste’s tent. He refused to eat; he sent away the servants who came with basins of water and cloths to wipe away the filth of battle. He spoke to no one, not even his uncle.

It was sunset, when the messenger rode into camp. Hearing the frantic hoofbeats, Laurent had burst out of the tent. For a moment, with the sun at his back, he could see only the silhouette of the rider—for a moment, he thought it was Auguste, returning. He pictured his brother, swinging down from his mount and smiling at him and saying the fighting was over, and they’d won, and they could go home.

But it wasn’t Auguste. Because Auguste, the messenger told them, would not be returning home. Because his body lay, motionless, on the field at Marlas.

There was a piece of himself, Laurent knew, that was still thirteen years old, standing outside that tent. That would always be thirteen, hovering, watching the sun set as he listened to a man with hollow eyes say that his brother was dead. Like an open door at the back of his mind, one that would never quite close.

His uncle, the King’s brother, had stepped in as Regent, and his first act had been to call parley, accepting the terms of surrender and ceding to Akielos the disputed lands of Delfeur, which the Akielons called Delpha. All the fighting, the death, the bloodshed—for nothing. Auguste’s death, Laurent thought, had meant nothing.

He shook his head, turning his thoughts away from that battle at Marlas, and from the weeks that followed. He had more important matters to consider.

The Regent would return in one week. Laurent would be punished, he knew, for the flogging. He tried not to let the anger he felt cloud his assessment of the situation. His uncle would, no doubt, appeal to the council, pointing to the slave as evidence of Laurent’s faulty character. He would be accused of allowing his emotions to interfere with carefully constructed diplomacy—as if his uncle truly desired peace with Akielos. He would be admonished, somehow. Publicly, most likely. His uncle would urge him once more to do his duty at the border. Laurent could see, in his mind’s eye, the possible moves that the Regent might make, like he was staring down at a chess board.

One week. Laurent had one week to spread the story of the slave’s impudence—of his violent and unruly nature. The court must think him justified in his course of action. It would be a careful balance, but Laurent’s entire life had become a careful balance, ever since the day he turned fifteen. He tightened his grip on the reins, and urged his horse to go faster, until the wind howled in his ears and stung his face. He did not return to the castle until after the sun had set.

***

The court summons came as no surprise to Laurent. It was the day after his uncle returned—on his first day back, the Regent had visited the slave. He had not warned Laurent, of course, but the news still made its way back that his uncle had brought Councillors Guion and Audin to see what his nephew made of the Akielon treaty. Guion was no surprise, but Audin—that boded ill.

Laurent was not a fool. He had known, even as he’d ordered it, that the lashing would have consequences. Still, he clung to the memory of Damen’s back, raw and bloody, latching on to the vicious satisfaction with grim determination. He did not regret it—would not regret it. The Regent had allowed Damianos of Akielos to walk away from Marlas, unscathed, six years ago. He could not bring him to the palace now and expect Laurent to leave him untouched. _Except that wasn’t the expectation, was it?_

No matter—this was nothing that Laurent could not overcome. He had learned his uncle’s games; he could keep up. He could keep from drowning, at least. So he arrived, dutifully, at court. It did not come as a shock to see the slave there, led in by the handler. His uncle’s orders, of course—the Regent was the only person with the power to order Damen to court, aside from Laurent. And Laurent certainly had nothing to do with the slave’s appearance, today.

His face had been painted, like an expensive pet, with gold. There were rubies woven into the dark hair, and more gold for his brow and his waist. The handler led him on a fine gold chain, terminating in a golden rod for his handler, the cat carved at one end holding a garnet in its mouth. And another fine chain, draped across his chest. It was disgusting.

Damen’s gaze fixed on Laurent the moment he entered the room. Left and right, courtiers were falling silent and stepping back, clearing a path to the throne.

A red carpet stretched from the double doors to the dais, woven with hunting scenes and apple trees and a border of acanthus. The walls were draped in tapestries, where the same rich red predominated. The throne was swathed in the same color.

Red, red red. The color of the Regent—and Akielos. Dressed in the deep blue of Vere, Laurent clashed.

Laurent braced himself, honing all his thoughts to a sharp point. Damen’s back was red, too—but healing. It no longer looked quite so similar to raw meat. Laurent allowed himself a glance, and then looked pointedly away.

At the end of the long carpet, the Regent sat on the throne. In his left hand, resting across his knee, he held a golden sceptre of office. And behind him, in full robes of state, was the Veretian Council.

The Council was the seat of Veretian power. In the days of his father, the Council’s role had been to advise on matters of state. Now the Regent and the Council held the nation in stewardship until Laurent’s ascension. Comprised of five men and no women, the Council was arrayed in a formidable backdrop on the dais. Laurent’s eyes moved over the graying hair of Audin, the sharp, darting eyes of Guion, the deeply lined face of Herode. Standing beside them were Jeurre and Chelaut, both with chestnut-brown hair and square jaws. All five wore their medallions around their necks, the mark of their office.

Also on the dais standing slightly back from the throne, Laurent saw Nicaise, who looked down arrogantly over the room. The Regent had done him up even more garishly than Damen—the only reason Damen outdid him in sheer volume of gilt was, being several times the little boy’s size, he had substantially more skin available to act as canvas.

A herald called out Laurent’s name and all of his titles.

Walking forward, Laurent joined Damen and his handler in their approach. The slave gritted his teeth as he performed the correct series of prostrations—Laurent kept his face carefully neutral, bending his knee the appropriate amount. Some small, dark part of him felt almost childish glee at the scene, and the obvious pain with which Damen bent. _It serves him right,_ thought Laurent, _for running to my uncle like an eager dog. After all his talk of honor._

From the courtiers lining the chamber, Laurent heard one or two murmured comments about the slave’s back. Set against the gold paint and the fine jewelry, it looked gruesome. Which was, of course, the point. The Regent wanted to discipline his nephew and, with the Council behind him, had chosen to do it in public.

“Uncle,” said Laurent.

Straightening, he kept his posture relaxed and his expression undisturbed, and braced himself for what he knew was about to come.

“Nephew,” said the Regent. “I think you can guess why we are here.”

“A slave laid hands on me, and I had him flogged for it.” Calmly.

“Twice,” said the Regent. “Against my orders. The second time, against the advice that it might lead to his death. Almost, it did.” His uncle had done his research—his first task upon returning from Chastillon, Laurent was sure, was to seek out and speak to everyone involved. But he remained calm.

“He’s alive. The advice was incorrect.”

“You were also advised of my order: that in my absence the slave wasn’t to be touched,” said the Regent. “Search your memory. You’ll find that advice was accurate. Yet you ignored it.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind. I know you are not so subservient towards Akielos that you would want the slave’s actions to go unpunished just because he is a gift from Kastor.” Let his uncle explain, to the court, how he wanted his nephew to bend over for an Akielon slave, and see if they’d side with him then.

“I can think of several reasons why you should not have a King’s gift beaten almost to death immediately after the signing of a treaty. Not the least because I ordered it. You claim to have administered a just punishment. But the truth is different.”

The Regent gestured, and a man stepped forward.

“The Prince offered me a gold coin if I could flog the slave to death.”

It was the moment when sympathy palpably swung away from Laurent. Realizing it, he opened his mouth to speak, but the Regent cut him off.

“No. You’ve had your chance to make apologies or give reasonable excuses. You chose instead to show unrepentant arrogance. You do not yet have the right to spit in the face of kings. At your age, your brother was leading armies and bringing glory to his country. What have you achieved in the same time? When you shirked your responsibilities at court, I ignored it. When you refused to do your duty on the border at Delfeur, I let you have your way. But this time your disobedience has threatened an accord between nations. The Council and I have met and agreed we must take action.”

It took every bit of Laurent’s will to remain calm. The outrage he felt at his uncle’s word was a gnawing pit in his stomach. _At my age, my brother was leading armies—until he was cut down by the man kneeling next to me,_ he did not say. It would be his word against his uncle’s—he would never be believed.

The Regent spoke in a voice of unquestioned power that was heard in every corner of the chamber.

“Your lands of Varenne and Marche are forfeit, along with all troops and monies that accompany them. You retain only Acquitart. For the next ten months, you will find your income reduced, and your retinue diminished. You will petition to me directly for any expenses. Be grateful you retain Acquitart and that we have not taken this decree further.”

Shock at the sanctions rippled across the assembly. There was outrage on some faces. But on many others there was something quietly satisfied, and the shock was less. In that moment, it was obvious which of the courtiers comprised the Regent’s faction, and which Laurent’s. And that Laurent’s was smaller.

“Be grateful I retain Acquitart,” said Laurent, “which by law you cannot take away and which besides has no accompanying troops and little strategic importance?”

“Do you think it pleases me to discipline my own nephew? No uncle acts with a heavier heart. Shoulder your responsibilities—ride to Delfeur—show me you have even a drop of your brother’s blood and I will joyfully restore it all.” Invoking his brother, again—it was his uncle’s favorite way to twist the knife.

“I think there is an old caretaker at Acquitart. Shall I ride to the border with him? We could share armor.”

“Don’t be facile. If you agreed to fulfill your duty, you would not lack for men.”

 _Your men,_ Laurent thought, _hand picked to make sure I failed. To make sure I fell into whatever trap you have set for me._

“Why would I waste my time on the border when, at Kastor’s whim, you roll over?” He was done with playing nice.

For the first time, the Regent looked angry. “You claim this is a matter of national pride, but you are unwilling to lift a finger to serve your own country. The truth is that you acted out of petty malice, and now you’re smarting at discipline. This is on your own head. Embrace the slave in apology, and we are done.”

 _Embrace the slave._ Before the entire court, his uncle had made him look like a petulant child. _Petty malice_ —Laurent clenched his jaw, unconsciously.

Anticipation among the gathered courtiers winched tighter. The handler urged Damen onto his feet.

His uncle wanted a child? Fine. Laurent could play the innocent. He approached the slave with soft, obedient grace. He hooked a finger in the chain that stretched across Damen’s chest and drew him forward by it. With cool detachment, Laurent’s fingers gathered rubies, inclining Damen’s head down far enough to kiss him on the cheek. The kiss was insubstantial: not a single mote of gold paint transferred itself to Laurent’s lips in the process.

“You look like a whore.” The soft words barely stirred the air by Damen’s ear, inaudible to anyone else. Lauren murmured: “Filthy painted slut. Did you spread for my uncle the way you did for Kastor?”

Damen recoiled violently, and gold paint smeared. He stared at Laurent from two paces away, a look of open revulsion spread across his features.

Laurent lifted the back of his hand to his cheek, now streaked with gold, then turned back to the Regent with a wide-eyed expression of injured innocence. Angelic--childlike. “Witness the slave’s behavior for yourself. Uncle, you wrong me cruelly. The slave’s punishment on the cross was deserved: you can see for yourself how arrogant and rebellious he is. Why do you punish your own blood when the fault lies with Akielos?”

Move, and counter move. There was a danger in doing something like this publicly. And indeed, there was a slight shift of sympathy within the assembly.

“You claim the slave was at fault and deserved punishment. Very well. He has received it. Now you receive yours. Even you are subject to the rule of Regent and Council. Accept it gracefully.”

Laurent bit back his retort, lowering his eyes. He would be a martyr, then. “Yes, uncle.” In the corner of his gaze, he could see Councillor Herode frowning a little with troubled sympathy.

The Regent ended the proceedings, rose, and departed, with Nicaise trailing behind. The councillors left with him. The symmetry of the chamber broke down as courtiers unlocked themselves from their positions on either side of the carpet and began to mingle more freely.

“You may hand me the leash,” Laurent said, pleasantly, to the handler. Damen looked up, meeting his eyes. The handler hesitated. Annoyance prickled along Laurent's spine.

“Why do you delay?” Laurent held out his hand and smiled, “The slave and I have embraced and are joyously reconciled.”

The handler passed him the leash. Laurent immediately drew the chain taut.

“Come with me,” Laurent said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/18 - just realized after a re-read of the 3rd book that I got some details wrong with the Marlas events; Auguste was killed before the king. Might go back and edit this later to fix that, but for now--apologies for the inconsistency!


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this is the garden scene, which contains sexual assault. Pacat really went all in on the assaults in book one...genuinely so uncomfortable. 
> 
> Also, a little disclaimer: in trying to interpret Laurent's perspective, I'm viewing a lot of the fucked up things he does through the lens of his trauma, instead of straight-up cruelty. This shouldn't lessen the impact of the actions--it's still completely fucked. Trauma is an explanation, not an excuse.

It was, perhaps, a little too ambitious of Laurent to think that he could extricate himself, easily and discreetly, from a court gathering of which his own censure had been the centerpiece. But he had a meeting of his own to attend.

Guiding the slave at the end of the leash, Laurent’s progress was thwarted again and again by those who wished to commiserate. There was a press of silk and cambric and solicitude. The slave was on edge behind him, eyeing warily the delicate chain that led to Laurent’s fist. The dislike emanating was almost palpable—Laurent had the distinct impression that he was imagining what he might do, if the room were empty of courtiers.

He did not pay any mind to Damen, turning his attention instead to his solicitors. He was skilled with speech—had learned from a young age how to twist his words and sweeten them, so that they would be swallowed, gladly, by any audience. He put his position rationally. He stopped the flow of talk when it became dangerously critical of his uncle. He said nothing that could be taken as an open slight on the Regency. Yet no one who talked to him could have any doubt that his uncle was behaving at best misguidedly and at worst treasonously.

Even so, he could not ignore the fact that all five councillors had left with the Regent. It was a sign of his uncle’s comparative power: he had the full backing of the Council. Laurent’s faction—for they were, at this point, factions—was left griping in the audience chamber. They did not like it; but then, they did not have to like it. They could do nothing about it.

Another time, Laurent might stay to shore up support, commiserating into the evening until he had the bulk of the courtiers’ sympathy, and had more deeply planted the seeds of discontent with his uncle's rule. Tonight, however, there was someone more important to sway in favor of his plight. He led Damen out of the audience chamber, moving through a series of interior courtyards large enough to contain trees, geometric greenery, fountains and winding paths. Across the courtyard, glimpses of the continuing revelry could be seen; the trees moved and the lights from the entertainment across the way winked, brightly.

They were not alone. Following at a discreet distance were two guards for Laurent’s protection. As usual, of course—he was not foolish enough to hope that the little restraint Damen had showed would last, with his back still smarting. And the courtyard itself was not empty. More than once they passed couples promenading on the paths, and once Laurent saw a pet and courtier twining around one another on a bench, sensuously kissing.

Laurent led them to an arbour, vine-bowered. Beside it was a fountain and a long pool tangled with lilies. Laurent tied Damen’s leash to the metalwork of the bower, as he might tie a horse’s lead to a post. He had to stand very close to Damen in order to do so, but gave no sign that he was bothered by the proximity. The slave wouldn’t dare to lash out, with the guards so close—and his discomfort when Laurent drew near was satisfying. The tether itself was nothing more than an insult. As a man possessing at least some faculties, rather than a dumb animal, Damen was perfectly capable of untying the leash. What kept him in place was not the thin gold chain casually looped around the metal, it was the liveried guard and the presence of half the court, and a great many men besides that, as witnesses to any foolish action he might attempt.

Laurent moved off a few steps, lifting the back of his hand to his neck, which was stiff with tension. His whole body felt stiff. For a moment, he did nothing but stand and be quiet and breathe the cool air scented with night flowers. It would almost be peaceful, if he could forget the presence of his brother’s killer only a few feet away.

But of course, he could not forget. The tension rose, surfacing, as Laurent turned back to him.

“You don’t have a very good sense of self-preservation, do you, little pet? Bleating to my uncle was a mistake,” said Laurent.

“Because you got your hand slapped?” said Damen, defiantly. Laurent was struck once more by how little the man understood. His mind moved only in straight lines.

“Because it’s going to anger all those guards you’ve taken so much trouble cultivating,” said Laurent. “They tend to dislike servants who place self-interest above loyalty.”

He saw Damen process the words, taken slightly aback. It was not what he had been expecting. Still, he set his jaw, letting his gaze rake up and down Laurent’s form.

“You can’t touch your uncle, so you lash out where you can. I’m not afraid of you. If there’s something you’re going to do to me, do it.”

He was just like the councillors, who jumped at his uncle’s every word; taken in by the performance and entirely unaware that it was a show. Laurent wondered, with some annoyance, where Damen’s revulsion with raping boys had gone—had he not seen Nicaise, at the Regent’s side, prettied and perfumed and fresh from fucking at Chastillon? He was irked, even more, by the assumption in Damen’s words. Did he really think Laurent had slipped away from the courtiers only to get his slave alone for some new form of punishment? After the scene with his uncle— _petty malice_?

“You poor, misguided animal,” said Laurent. “Whatever made you think I came here for you?”

Damen blinked.

“Then again,” said Laurent, “maybe I do need you for one thing.” He wound the thin chain once around his own wrist, and then, with a sharp jerk, he snapped it. The two ends slithered away from his wrist and dropped, dangling. Laurent took a step backwards. Damen looked at the broken chain, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Your Highness,” said a voice.

Laurent turned. “Councillor Herode.”

It was thanks to Herode that he had known what to expect, at the court summons. He was the eldest of those on the Council, and he had been close with Laurent’s father when he was king. Unable to completely dispel with the guilt he felt, he had let slip to Laurent that he was to be sanctioned—and he had requested to speak with him, after the court appearance.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” began Herode. Then he saw Damen and hesitated. “Forgive me. I…assumed you would come alone.”

Did he really think they were fucking—after that show in the audience chamber? Had Laurent done anything to appear even remotely amorous?

“Forgive you?” said Laurent.

A silence opened up around the words. In it, their meaning changed. Herode began, “I—” Then he looked at Damen, and his expression grew alarmed. “Is this safe? He’s broken his leash. Guard!” How easily drawn in men were by appearances.

There was the shrill sound of a sword drawn from a sheath. Two swords. The guards pushed their way into the arbour and interposed themselves between Damen and Herode. Laurent watched it all with cold satisfaction.

“You’ve made your point,” Herode said, with a wary eye on Damen. “I hadn’t seen the slave’s rebellious side. You seemed to have him under control in the ring. And the slaves gifted to your uncle are so obedient. If you attend the entertainments later, you’ll see that for yourself.”

“I’ve seen them,” said Laurent. Irritation sharpened his tone. There was a little silence.

“You know how close I was to your father,” said Herode, “Since his death, I have given my loyalty unswervingly to your uncle. I’m concerned that in this case it may have led me to make an error of judgement—"

“If you’re concerned that my memory for wrongs against me is longer than ten months,” said Laurent, “there’s no need for anxiety. I am sure you can persuade me you were genuinely mistaken.”

Herode looked nervous. “Perhaps we can take a turn in the garden. The slave can avail himself of the garden seat and rest his injuries.”

“How thoughtful of you, Councillor,” said Laurent. He turned to Damen and said in a melting voice, “Your back must hurt terribly.”

“It’s fine,” said Damen.

 _He cries to my uncle about his wounds, then plays the noble savage when confronted._ “Kneel on the ground then,” Laurent said.

One of the guards gripped Damen’s shoulder, forcing him down; as soon as his knees hit the ground, then a sword was held to his throat to dissuade him from rising. It made for a pleasing picture. Laurent smiled sweetly, then turned and began to walk away, in step with Herode. Damen disappeared amongst the greenery behind them—just one more decoration among the perfumed garden paths.

***

They avoided the revelers, taking a circuitous route through the gardens. The guards remained behind, with Damen. When they were out of earshot—far from any passerbys, Herode said haltingly, “I fear your uncle may have—mistaken—your intentions with the slave. Out of concern, the Council—I—may have rushed to judgement.”

“Mistaken? Or perhaps misconstrued?” Laurent’s voice was a knife—edged, and sharp. Herode looked at him with alarm.

“Mistaken,” he repeated firmly, “The Regent and the Council want only the best for the kingdom. With your ascension approaching, this tension with Akielos—the situation is fragile. We wanted to ensure that you could overcome whatever feelings you might harbor towards Akielons. You will soon be an ally to their king.”

“Am I not already?”

“I meant only that the Regent bears the brunt of diplomatic duties, now. In ten months that will change.”

“And not a day sooner, I am sure.”

They regarded each other, Laurent coolly and Herode with growing discomfort.

“Your uncle wants only to strengthen your character, to ensure you are disciplined—”

“Oh I am disciplined, surely. You have helped see to that.” Herode was not ill-intentioned; but he was, Laurent though, somewhat of a fool. He must be, to remain so deliberately blind to what was happening in front of him. What had been happening, Laurent knew, for a long while.

“You say my uncle wishes to strengthen me, yet he moves to weaken me with only months until I am on the throne. You say my attitude towards Akielons is concerning—would it not be more prudent, then, to ensure Vere has a strong king, with the court united behind him, when it is my time to face our new ally to the south?” Laurent drew back some of the bite in his tone, infusing instead a sense of earnest bewilderment. Like a man leading a horse to water—he only hoped Herode would look down, and see the stream running beneath his feet. Indeed, the older man frowned. He was not entirely foolish.

“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “In his role as family, your uncle’s sight is sometimes…clouded. He cares for you quite deeply. In the future I will be a—steadying hand. A more balanced perspective might be necessary…”

“A counterweight?”

The silence that fell between them was heavy.

“My loyalty is to Vere,” Herode said. “I will do what I can to ensure the strength of the crown.”

Laurent inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the promise behind the words. It was tenuous, at best—but better than nothing. Better than leaving the room with his uncle. “I do not doubt your loyalty.”

Their circuitous stroll had brought them back towards the revelry. Laurent could hear the voices of the courtiers once more, a steady buzz. As they walked, a small smile crossed Herode’s face.

“You are quite like your father,” he said, fond reminiscence coloring his voice, “I used to walk through these gardens with him, when he was in need of advice. He insisted that the walls were stifling—he needed open air to think.” Although he was looking down at Laurent, Herode’s eyes were somehow distant, as if split across time. “He possessed the same sense of justice—everything had to be fair, with Aleron. It drove him sometimes to fault; but more often, it strengthened him. It pleases me to see you have inherited the quality.”

Laurent was not sure how to respond. No one ever compared him to his father; he was too slight, too cerebral, not the man of action that Aleron had been. The past felt abruptly closer as he imagined his father, when he was a much younger man, taking the same steps that Laurent now took. His throat felt tight.

They parted ways near the audience chamber. Herode would return, no doubt, to the Regent’s entertainments. When he was alone, Laurent stood for a moment, looking out at the flickering lights. He tried to imagine how they might look different, if he was seeing them with his father’s eyes.

***

The slave was not alone, when he returned to the clearing where he had left him. Laurent heard voices, carried on the gentle summer breeze. The sound of Vannes, speaking, became clear.

“…saw more of it at the ring, of course. As for the danger…Councillor Guion suggested that he wasn’t trained to perform as a pleasure slave. But training isn’t everything. He might have natural talent.”

Laurent stepped into the arbour. Damen was in the same position, kneeling on the ground. Prostrated beside him was one of the Regent’s Akielon slaves, wearing a petite version of Damen’s gold collar and wrist-cuffs. He had fair skin, and curling light brown hair burnished with gold. His eyes, which remained fixed firmly on the ground, were hopelessly artless. Childlike, as all the Akielon slaves were. With his straight back and burning eyes, Damen could not look more different. The collar around his neck was a joke.

Nicaise would be nearby, Laurent thought—but as he swept his eyes across the gathered company, the child was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was Vannes, with a playful smirk dancing across her lips. She was joined by Lord Berenger, an austere but gentle courtier, and his red-haired pet, almost girlish in countenance. A third courtier joined them, Elanne, a minor lord. Laurent gathered himself, pasting aloof boredom across his features. Herode’s words about justice were still echoing in his mind.

“Natural talent?” said Laurent.

He strolled into the gathering. The courtiers all bobbed respectfully, and Vannes explained the subject under consideration: whether or not the slave could provide an entertaining performance. Laurent could see by the hard set of Damen’s jaw how the topic displeased him.

“Well?” he prodded, “Can you couple adequately, or do you just kill things?”

Damen remained silent. Laurent could tell that he was attempting to keep his face neutral—and was failing, utterly. 

“He’s not very talkative,” remarked Vannes.

Laurent thought of Damen’s words—in the baths, on the cross. “It comes and goes,” he said.

“I’d happily perform with him.” It was Berenger’s red-haired pet—Ancel. Ostensibly, he spoke to his master, but the words carried. He was a clever one, Laurent thought, a new face at court who had scrambled quickly through the ranks. Clearly, he was angling ever upwards.

“Ancel, no. He could hurt you.” Berenger was a good man—a genuinely good man. He had less instinct for deception than most of the Veretian courtiers.

“Would you like that?” said Ancel, sliding his arms around his master’s neck. Just before he did so, he glanced sideways at Laurent, who weathered the look with dry amusement. Ancel would not find what he was looking for from the prince—and he was far too old for the Regent, despite the girlish appearance, which made him look younger than he was.

“No. I wouldn’t.” Lord Berenger frowned.

But it was obvious that the provocative question had been aimed not at his master, but at Laurent. “What do you think, Your Highness?” said Ancel.

“I think your master would prefer you intact.” Said Laurent, dryly.

“You could tie the slave up,” he said.

It was a testament to Ancel’s lacquered skill that it came out teasing and seductive, rather than what it was, a last attempt of a climber to catch and hold a prince’s attention. But Laurent was tired, and in no mood for the petty games of the court. He prepared to dismiss the idea, until Vannes spoke.

“What about something small, while we wait for the main entertainment?” she suggested, “Surely it’s past time for the slave to learn his place?”

Laurent paused, absorbing the words, giving the idea his full attention. _Learn his place._ He turned the decision over in his mind, weighing his uncle’s chastisement and the slave’s loose tongue, which had given the Regent all he needed for his public spectacle. One show for another, perhaps. His mouth curled, his features hardened. If the slave wished to make himself an actor at this court, Laurent thought, then surely he should allow him to perform?

“Why not?” Laurent said.

And had the immediate satisfaction of hearing Damen’s urgent protest, “ _No,_ ” half-stymied as hands closed over him. He fought, foolishly, earnestly, against the guards who manhandled him, dragging against their touch as if he was unable to stop his body from objecting.

A lovers’ bench nestled inside the bower, creating two curved semicircles. The courtiers made themselves at ease on it, occupying one side. Vannes suggested wine, and a servant was fetched with a tray. One or two other courtiers wandered over, and Vannes struck up a conversation with one of them about the embassy from Patras, due to arrive in a few days.

Damen was lashed to the seat on the other side, facing them. He looked as if he could not quite believe that what was happening was real.

Lord Berenger was delineating the encounter. The slave would be tied up, and Ancel would use his mouth. Vannes protested that it was so rare for the Prince to agree to a performance, they should make the most of it. _Rare—_ Laurent snorted. The entire court knew that he did not keep pets. Despite Vannes’ protests, Ancel’s master would not be swayed. Laurent did not much care one way or the other; his eyes were on Damen’s face, which had gone pale. He looked like he might be sick. _Good,_ Laurent thought, viciously, even as the beginnings of nausea curled in his own gut.

He watched as Damen gripped the metalwork of the bower, his wrists cuffed to it above his head. Elsewhere, Laurent well knew, similar scenes would be playing out throughout the garden—but he doubted any pet would look as disgusted with his position as Damen did. His eyes, which had been darting angrily about, settled on Ancel, who did not balk at the fury in the gaze. The red-haired pet was a professional, and a well-trained one. Laurent wondered, vaguely, how he had come into Berenger’s employ.

Ancel dropped to his knees and found his way into Damen’s slave garments. Damen looked down at him with an expression of outright disgust. Laurent supposed that Ancel was not the barbarian’s type—a willing partner, and not one who could be restrained, caught by the wrist, if he protested. Still, he pushed his curtain of hair to one side, and began without any formality. To anyone watching, his skill was apparent; he manipulated the slave expertly with mouth and hands. Yet there was no sign of arousal from his subject. If there was anything explicit on view, it was the absence of all desire.

Laurent moved deliberately, and sat beside Damen. He arranged himself coolly on the bench.

“I wonder if we can do better than this,” he said airily, “Stop.”

Ancel detached himself from his endeavors and looked up, lips wet.

“You’re more likely to win a game if you don’t play your whole hand at once,” said Laurent, “Start more slowly.” He kept his mind firmly in place—did not allow himself to think of how he had been instructed similarly, once.

Damen reacted to Laurent’s words with inevitable tension. The fire in his eyes sparked. Ancel leaned in close, between his knees, releasing breath over sensitive skin. “Like this?” Ancel asked. His mouth was an inch from its destination, and his hands slid slowly up Damen’s thighs. His wet lips parted slightly. Laurent watched as Damen, against his will, reacted.

“Like that,” said Laurent.

“Shall I…?” said Ancel, leaning forward.

“Don’t use your mouth yet,” said Laurent, “Just your tongue.” In the back of his mind, another voice, echoing— _go slowly, good boy._ He frowned, applying all his attention to the slave.

Ancel obeyed the instructions. Laurent studied Damen’s face with the same cerebral attention that he might apply to a strategic problem. Ancel’s tongue pressed into the slit. He saw the minute change in expression—the slight parting of lips, the reddening along cheekbones.

“He likes that. Do it harder,” said Laurent.

Damen swore, a single Akielon word. His breathing was changing, becoming ragged in his chest. The flush spread across his face; his brow creased. Laurent’s eyes flickered, observing Ancel’s ministrations. He felt removed, as if his mind was lifted slightly outside his body. As if the slave and the pet were pieces on a chess board, Laurent studied, considering what moves would be best suited to meet his goal.

“Now lick him. The whole length.” The words were cool. Ancel obeyed. Damen’s thighs flexed, then, minutely, spread, his breath quickening in his chest. There was a metallic sound as he pulled against the cuffs, his hands fists. He turned towards Laurent, who maintained the relaxed arrangement of his limbs. He gazed at Damen with detached unconcern, no longer bothering to so much as glance down at Ancel’s moving head.

He knew how his guards spoke of him. Damen would have heard, in detail, about his frigidity—Laurent could see, as they gazed at each other, the struggle behind the heat in his eyes, as if the slave was trying vaguely to puzzle him out. He stared back with disdain. He would not allow anything to break the calm that he had cultivated, carefully. The scene before him was the echo of so many others, which clamored at the fringes of Laurent’s composure. But he was not the obedient child, following instruction—neither was he the man, grunting and sweaty and brutish. He was removed, untouchable; he was rewriting the script, spinning it out of himself and onto the bodies of the men before him, as if it was some sort of sickness that he could expel.

And Ancel obeyed instruction, his mouth doing what it was told. Laurent kept his commands leisurely, unhurried, and he had the refined practice of suspending his engagements at the very moment they began to get interesting. Damen was unused to it, he could tell. After the display in the baths, Laurent had no doubt that the barbarian was used to taking what he wished, when he wished. Most likely, he had never been denied anything in his life. Laurent sensed his frustration as it peaked; gratification was stymied, relentlessly.

“Push down on it,” Laurent said.

Damen’s breath released shatteringly from his chest at the first long, wet slide. Ancel couldn’t quite take it all, though his throat was exquisitely trained, lacking a gag reflex. Laurent’s next order came like a tap on the shoulder, and Ancel drew obediently back up to do no more than suckle the head.

Damen’s breathing was heavy, urgent. He seemed less aware of his surroundings as his attention focused on Ancel, kneeling before him, and Laurent, sitting indolently next to him. It would soon be over.

Laurent uncrossed his legs, and rose.

“Finish him off,” said Laurent, incidentally and without a backwards glance, returning to the other courtiers to make a few remarks about the subject currently under discussion. He felt no particular need to see out the conclusion, now that it was inevitable. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Behind him came the sound of the chains pulling taught, and breath cutting sharply into the air. He heard Ancel swallow, wetly.

“A little slow in the beginning, but quite a satisfactory climax,” said Vannes.

Damen was unshackled from the lovers’ seat and pushed back down onto his knees. Laurent seated himself opposite, legs crossed. Damen’s eyes fixed on him and looked nowhere else; his breathing was still noticeable, and his eyes burned. Lingering arousal, perhaps, or anger. It made no difference either way.

The musical sound of bells intruded on the gathering; Nicaise interrupted without any sign of deference to the courtiers seated around Laurent. His eyes, a deep, clear blue beneath the paint, were tight with annoyance. Laurent had been wondering when he would show up.

“I’m here to speak to the Prince,” said Nicaise.

Laurent lifted his fingers minutely, and the retinue around him made a brief obeisance before departing.

Nicaise came to stand in front of the bench and stared at Laurent with an expression of hostility. Laurent remained relaxed, one arm spread out over the back of the bench.

“Your uncle wants to see you.”

“Does he? Let’s make him wait.”

Nicaise sat down. “I don’t mind. The longer you wait, the more trouble you’ll be in.”

Laurent’s mouth quirked up a fraction. “Well, as long as you don’t mind.” He said, amused.

Nicaise lifted his chin. “I’m going to tell him you waited on purpose.” _For all his arrogance_ , Laurent thought, _he still acts like a boy_.

“You can if you like. I just assumed he’d guess, but you can save him the effort. Since we’re waiting, shall I call for refreshments?” He gestured to the last of the tray-bearing servants, who stopped his retreat and approached. “Do you take wine, or aren’t you old enough yet?”

“I’m thirteen. I drink whenever I like.” Nicaise scorned the tray, pushing at it so hard it almost overbalanced. “I’m not going to drink with you. We don’t need to start pretending politeness.”

“Don’t we? Very well: I think it is fourteen by now, isn’t it?”

Nicaise turned red, under the paint.

“I thought so,” said Laurent. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do, after? I know your master’s tastes, you have another year, at most. At your age, the body begins to betray itself.” And then, reacting to the flicker of horror in the blue eyes, “Or has it started already?” Lauren remembered the changes his own body had experienced, when he was Nicaise’s age. The growth of limbs, the crack of his voice.

The red grew strident. “ _That isn’t any of your business._ ” It was the same embarrassment—the same shame—that Laurent had felt. As if his body was betraying him. As if young boys' bodies were meant to do anything other than grow.

“You’re right, it isn’t.” he said.

Nicaise opened his mouth, but Laurent continued before he could speak, a sudden urge to offer—something—overcoming him.

“I’ll offer for you, if you like. When the time comes. I wouldn’t want you in my bed, but you’d have all the same privileges. You might prefer that. I’d offer.”

Nicaise blinked, and then sneered. “With what?”

Laurent released a breath of amusement. “Yes, if I have any land left at all, I may have to sell it to buy bread, never mind pets. We will both have to navigate the next ten months on the tips of our toes.”

“I don’t need you. He’s promised. He’s not going to give me up.” Nicaise’s voice was smug and self-satisfied. Laurent could sense the fear beneath it.

“He gives them all up,” said Laurent. It was a battle to stave off the exhaustion that came over him, suddenly, “even if you’re more enterprising than the others have been.”

“He likes me better than the others.” A scornful laugh. “You’re jealous.” Laurent gazed at the boy, bitterly. It was no use trying to save him—it was no use trying to save any of them. Nicaise saw his expression, and mistook it.

“ _You’re going to tell him you want me._ ” He was horrified.

“Oh,” said Laurent, “No. Nicaise…no. That would wreck you. I wouldn’t do that.” His voice grew weary, “Maybe it’s better if you think that I would. You have quite a good mind for strategy, to have thought of that. Maybe you will hold him longer than the others.” _Longer than I did,_ he didn’t say.

Laurent stood up from the bench and held his hand out to the boy.

“Come on. Let’s go. You can watch me get told off by my uncle.”


	7. Chapter Six

His uncle wished to see him, as it turned out, to offer a series of oblique and prickling instructions about how Laurent was to conduct himself when the Patran embassy arrived. Patras bordered Akielos to the north and was a country of similar culture—not traditionally an ally of Vere. But with the newfound goodwill between the Akielon king and the Veretian regent, the Patran king thought it a prudent time to secure his own relations with Laurent’s country. Behind his uncle’s gilded, backhanded insults, the message was clear: Laurent himself was not to interfere in the Regent's diplomatic endeavors—not when he had committed such a severe slight against the treaty with Kastor. He assured his uncle, smilingly, that he would be on his best behavior.

Laurent had known of the Patran embassy for a long while now—though the Regent had tried to obscure the news from reaching him, hoping to leave him unprepared. It would be, perhaps, one of the prince’s only clear opportunities to shore up support for his position. His uncle’s hold over Vere was strong, but to foreign leaders Laurent was still the crown prince. And he would need the support, to face whatever his uncle was planning. It was why, when the Regent was away at Chastillon, Laurent had sat down at his desk and written the letter that he had hoped he would never have to write—the letter that he sent, discreetly, galloping south from the castle in the hands of one of his most trusted men.

He had no way of knowing exactly what moves his uncle might make, but he was beginning to piece the clues together. The Regent’s continued attempts to send Laurent to the border, coupled with reports from Vere that informed of the struggle Kastor was experiencing in bringing his northern territories to heel—whatever it was his uncle was plotting, Laurent was sure it would take place in that land where Akielos and Vere met. His first line of defense, then, would be to remain far away from the border. The trouble with the slave complicated this goal; Laurent could see, with his fury now cooled, somewhat, that the beating had been a mistake of more serious proportions than he had initially expected. He must now prepare for every possibility.

The delegation from Patras, then, was an opportunity he must handle carefully. Patran support could make all the difference, if Laurent had guessed his uncle’s intentions correctly. Laurent had a feeling that Patran troops, in particular, might come in handy. So he weathered it as, in response to the Regent’s edicts, his household was cut back. Without access to income from his various estates, Laurent’s retinue was substantially diminished and his spending curtailed. In the whirlwind of changes, the slave’s room was moved from the royal pet residences to Laurent’s wing of the palace, as far as possible from Laurent’s own rooms. Laurent bore it all stoically, unmoved—he turned all his attention to his preparations for the delegation. He did not spare a thought for the slave, except to ensure that his security remained vigilant.

In fact, with his mind so entirely swept up in his uncle’s unscrupulous game, Laurent paid hardly any mind to thoughts of Damen, after abandoning him in the gardens. The feelings that prickled at the edges of his consciousness—the sticky twisting in his gut when he thought of the baths, the cross, the gardens—were firmly disregarded. Laurent had more important things to worry about.

***

The Patran delegation arrived just as the final dying breaths of Spring were beginning to give way to summer. The sun was swollen in the sky with the promise of coming heat, and the cicadas began to sing with relish. The delegation was led by Prince Torveld, younger brother to King Torgeir of Patras, though in this case “younger” was relative. He was a handsome man in his forties, more than twice Laurent’s age. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard in the Patran style, his dark hair still largely untouched by gray. He was a good choice for ambassador to Vere; Torveld had spent most of the last eighteen years on Patras’ northern border in dealings with the Vaskian empire, and had distinguished himself in the campaigns to the north before Laurent was born. He was fifth in line to inherit, after the King’s litter of three sons and a daughter.

He was, by Laurent’s impression, a warm, honest man, from a warm, honest country. Patras was a straightforward place, without the bloodthirstiness of Akielos or the twisted ornamentation of Vere. He approached Laurent and his uncle openly, and took what he found at face value.

So it was, with careful attention to detail, that Laurent constructed his face value. There was a chance, of course, that Torveld’s preferences might lie elsewhere. Still, Laurent dressed in a jacket slightly more ornamented than those he was typically partial to, watching servants lace up gold thread, before he joined the retinue of courtiers welcoming the delegation. When he was introduced to Torveld, he looked up through his lashes and smiled shyly, the picture of demure grace.

“The prince of Vere,” Torveld’s smile spread across his entire face, crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes, “It’s an honor.”

“The honor is entirely mine, my lord.” Laurent’s voice was a musical lilt. He watched Torveld’s eyes roam up and down his body, stifling the initial instinct to withdraw. It was clear immediately, where his preferences lay—a small victory. Laurent’s returning smile was genuine, although for different reasons.

After that, he made every excuse he could to spend time with the Patran delegation. His uncle could do little to prevent his involvement in the trade negotiations—Laurent was, after all, the crown prince. He softened his tongue and sharpened his wit, approaching the negotiations with poise and distinguishing himself with his pretty, clever speech. The more time they spent together, the more delighted Torveld appeared to be by his company. At court dinners, he was seated always near Laurent, and focused the bulk of his attention on the prince. Laurent had only to bat his eyelashes to elicit smiles and warm praise.

It was entirely exhausting. Laurent returned to his rooms each night and discarded the sweet smiles like armor after a battle. Torveld was a decent man; still, he was closer to the Regent in age than Laurent, who was young enough to be his son. _I am a man,_ he reminded himself, _and he sees me as such._ Yet it felt all too familiar.

He was thusly exhausted and returning to his room after a banquet, a few days after the arrival of the delegation, when he encountered Radel. The overseer was waiting to speak with him. It was long past nightfall; dawn promised to approach in a few short hours. The slave, Radel informed him, requested an audience. Laurent felt like a man who has discarded his shield, only to find a knife pressed to his belly.

 _Fine._ If Damen had something important to say, far be it from Laurent to make him wait. It would be almost a relief, after playing the part of the saccharine rose, to have a chance to flex his thorns. He commanded Radel to guide him, without delay, to the slave’s chambers.

Damen was asleep when he arrived, limbs sprawled across crushed pillows and disturbed silken sheets. Laurent gazed down at him coolly. Unconscious, face wiped blank of all expression, he was oddly peaceful. It was disconcerting.

The torches were lit, and the servants who had lit them were withdrawing. Damen was startled awake by the activity; his eyes met Laurent’s. He moved carefully, wariness setting in behind his gaze. Silk slid away completely to pool among the cushions as he pushed himself up. Laurent paid it no attention. He tried not to think of the last time he had visited the slave in the middle of the night, with the world's edges blurred by wine. The chain, connected to one of the wrist-cuffs, dragged across the cushions, following his movement.

His face set, like a man resigning himself to his course of action. Very deliberately, he knelt and bowed his head, and lowered his eyes to the floor. Laurent, who had been steeling himself for a battle, was shocked into silence. For a moment, it was so quiet that he could hear the flames from the torches fluttering in the air.

“This is new,” said Laurent.

“There’s something I want,” said Damen.

 _Of course._ “Something you want.” The same words, precisely enunciated. He had known this was going to be unpleasant—he could not imagine anything that Damen might want, which he would willingly give.

“You get something in return,” said Damen.

Laurent was not sure, entirely, how to proceed. He paced slowly around the slave, as though simply interested in viewing him from all angles. He was too tired for more mind games, tonight. Damen’s jaw was set; he gazed determinedly at the floor.

“Are you misguided enough to try to bargain with me? What could you possibly offer that I would want?” He made the words scornful—did not allow the underlying flicker of curiosity to show its face.

“Obedience,” said Damen.

Laurent could not prevent his reaction. He repressed the interest—but it was clear from the shift in Damen’s eyes that he’d seen the expression. He continued speaking, urged on by the curiosity that Laurent had allowed, in a moment of weakness, to bleed onto his face.

“You want me to submit. I’ll do it. You want me to publicly earn the punishment that your uncle won’t let you mete out? Whatever performance you want from me, you’ll have it. I will throw myself on the sword. In exchange for one thing.”

It was too good to be true. It was exactly what Laurent needed—would need, to counter the blow his uncle had struck against him with the sanctions. Damen must think he was stupid. Laurent had seen how he reacted to forced obedience; there was no possibility that he planned to keep the promises he was making. There would be some scheme—some plot to escape.

“Let me guess. You want me to take off your chains. Or reduce your guard. Or put you in a room where the doors and windows are unbarred. Don’t waste your breath.”

Anger sparked, hot, across Damen’s features—and was quickly smothered. With effort, he said bluntly, “I don’t think the slaves in your uncle’s care are well treated. Do something about it, and the bargain is made.”

Laurent paused. It was not what he had expected—again. He was not used to misjudging. “The slaves?”

He realized, quickly, that he had allowed his guard to drop. He raised it immediately, renewed the drawling scorn: “Am I supposed to believe that you care about their welfare? How exactly would they be treated better in Akielos? It is your barbaric society that forced them into slavery, not mine. I would not have thought it possible to train the will out of a man, but you have managed it. Congratulations. Your show of compassion rings false.”

Damen said, “One of the handlers took a heated iron from the fire to test whether the slave would obey an order to stay silent while he used it. I don’t know if that is usual practice in this place, but good men don’t torture slaves in Akielos. Slaves are trained to obey in all things, but their submission is a pact: They give up free will in exchange for perfect treatment. To abuse someone who cannot resist—isn’t that monstrous?”

There were a number of things Laurent could say, in response to this little diatribe—not least of which involved highlighting how ridiculous the idea was that someone could freely _give up_ their will. But he was not here to debate the merits of the barbaric practice. And Damen was still speaking.

“Please. They’re not like me. They’re not soldiers. They haven’t killed anyone. They’re innocent. They will serve you willingly. And so will I, if you do something to help them.”

It was wrong. All wrong, once again. He was so open—so vulnerable. Laurent could sense no deception in his words, only genuine concern for the rest of the slaves. Would he really sacrifice his pride, for this? Laurent remembered, suddenly, the slave who had been in the gardens with Damen—he had not even thought to speak to the man, who knelt on the ground so unobtrusively that he could almost be mistaken for one of the decorations. But Damen must have spoken to him. Damen must have inquired as to his conditions, to present Laurent now with the information of the torture. The thought of his uncle, or his uncle’s courtiers, branding a man for entertainment came as no shock to Laurent. But the thought of the prince-killer, the bloodthirsty warrior who had haunted his nightmares since childhood, debasing himself in order to help the lowest members of society… 

Finally, Laurent said, “You overestimate my influence over my uncle.” He could not entirely hide his exhaustion, as he said the words.

Damen began to speak, but Laurent cut him off.

“No. I—” He frowned, drawing his brows together. There _had_ to be some other layer. None of this made any sense. He abandoned pretense, “You would really sacrifice your pride over the fate of a handful of slaves?” It was an echo of the display at the ring: _I take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself._ “Why?”

Damen could not contain the anger, this time. Laurent watched it break over his face as he burst out, “ _Because I am stuck here in this cage, and I have no other way to help them._ ” Rage lashed in his voice; there was frustration in his clenched fists. His breathing was uneven. Laurent could see that he was trying to hold himself back from further outbursts, not without some effort.

Laurent’s frown deepened. It was so—simple. He wanted to help, ostensibly only for the sake of helping, and he had deduced that this was the only method by which he might acquire some leverage. It was something a good man might do.

After a moment, Lauren gestured to the guard at the door and Radel was summoned. He arrived presently.

Without taking his eyes off Damen, Laurent said, “Has anyone been in or out of this room?”

“No one but your own staff, Your Highness. As you ordered.”

“Which of the staff?”

Radel recited a list of names. None of them gave Laurent pause. He said, “I want to speak to the guards who were watching over the slave in the gardens.” There had to be _something_. It could not be so simple as this.

“I’ll send for them personally,” said Radel, departing on the errand.

“You think this is a trick,” said Damen. Resentment colored his tone. Laurent stared down at him, assessing. There was a sharp burst of bitter laughter.

“Something amuses you?” asked Laurent, irritated.

“What would I have to gain from—” Damen broke off. “I don’t know how to convince you. You don’t do anything without a dozen motives. You lie even to your own uncle. This is a country of deviousness and deception.”

Laurent bristled. Damen spoke as if _he_ was responsible for all the wretched deviousness—as if he had not been struggling himself not to drown in the deceptions that began when he was thirteen. As if he had done anything but keep his head above water, using whatever means he could. _It’s not my fault,_ he wanted to say, childishly. Except that he realized, from Damen’s perspective, that much of it was.

Even so, it was ridiculous, the way the man saw the world. Astonishingly naïve. His _own brother_ had shipped him here as a slave. At least in Vere, Laurent thought, brothers did not try to kill each other. 

“Whereas pure Akielos is free of treachery? The heir dies on the same night as the King, and it is merely coincidence that smiles on Kastor?” he said silkily, “You should kiss the floor when you beg for my favor.”

He saw the words hit Damen, saw as he repressed his reaction. Gritting his teeth, he forced out, “I apologize. I spoke out of turn.”

Laurent said, “If this is a fabrication—if I find you have been moonlighting with emissaries from my uncle—”

“I haven’t,” said Damen. As if Laurent had offended him. As if he hadn’t rolled over willingly, when the Regent had returned from Chastillon and asked him to.

The guard took a little longer to rouse than Radel, but they arrived reasonably promptly. Dressed in livery and looking alert, rather than, as might be expected, yawning and trailing bed linen. Laurent’s men were well trained.

“I want to know who spoke with the slave the night you watched over him in the gardens,” said Laurent. “Nicaise and Vannes I know about.”

“That was it,” came the answer, “There was no other.” And then, as if remembering what had previously seemed an afterthought, “No. Wait.”

“Oh?” Laurent’s pulse quickened.

“After you left,” the guard said, “he got a visit from Govart.”

There was a spike of vindication, coupled with a sticky sense of disappointment. It seemed that Laurent’s estimation of the slave had been correct. He tried to pretend that some small part of him had not hoped otherwise.

“No,” said Damen, desperately, “It’s not what you think.”

_He takes me for a fool._

“Shut him up,” said Laurent. “Try not to leave any new marks. He’s cause enough trouble for me as it is.”


	8. Chapter Seven

The guard, who had begun to move towards Damen, was brought up short when the slave rose suddenly to his feet. He swung his gaze back to Laurent as if seeking further guidance.

Laurent narrowed his eyes at the problem, but offered no immediate solution. _It’s too late for this._

Damen, observing the hesitation, said snidely, “You could bring in more men.”

Behind him were strewn the cushions and rumpled silk sheets, and trailing across the floor was the single chain linked to his wrist-cuff that was no impediment to movement at all. He stood like a man ready for a fight—eager, even.

“You are really courting danger tonight,” Laurent said.

“Am I? I thought I was appealing to your better nature. Order whatever punishment you like from the coward’s distance of a chain-length. You and Govart are two of a kind.”

The words gave Laurent pause. _Two of a kind?_ What exactly was he talking about—punishment from the distance of a chain-length? Doubt crept in, at the fringes of Laurent’s mind. He had assumed any interaction with Govart was sanctioned by his uncle. But what need would the Regent have to punish the slave, when his actions had given the man exactly what he’d hoped for?

The guard was quicker in responding, hearing only the insult. Steel flashed out of his sheath. “Watch your mouth.”

Damen’s eyes flitted over the man, appraising, and then moved down to the drawn sword with scorn, as a man might look at an unruly child who was throwing a tantrum. Clearly, he did not find his opponent threatening. Laurent thought of the fight in the ring where, with his lungs full of chalis, he had bested a trained mercenary nearly double his size.

“You’re no better. You saw what Govart was doing. You did nothing to stop him.”

The guard moved to take another step forward—but Laurent raised a hand, halting him.

“What was it he was doing?” said Laurent.

The guard stepped back, then shrugged. “Raping one of the slaves.”

There was a flurry of emotions, all of which were forcibly repressed. Laurent wondered, briefly, if he would need to begin adjusting some of his expectations for the slave. For, once again, he found himself left wondering at Damen’s response—although, it appeared more and more, it was in keeping with everything else he had ever said to Laurent.

He did not allow his doubts to show. Instead, he transferred his gaze back to Damen and said, pleasantly, “Does that bother you? I recall you being free with your own hands, not so very long ago.” He could still feel the ghost of Damen’s grip on his wrist, as his eyes traveled down his body in the baths.

“That was—” Damen flushed, seeming to realize denial would be both stupid and insulting. His voice was low, urgent, “I promise you, Govart did a great deal more than simply enjoy the view.”

 _Enjoy the view._ Laurent remembered the panicked racing of his heart, the sense of exposure and powerlessness he had felt—even knowing that he was safe with his guards outside the door. But he did not share any of these reminiscences.

“To a slave,” he said pointedly, “The Prince’s Guard doesn’t interfere with the Regency. Govart can stick his cock into anything of my uncle’s he likes.”

Damen made a sound of disgust. “With your blessing?”

Why couldn’t he understand that it _didn’t matter_ if the Regent had his blessing—that this fact was the primary source of all Laurent’s current problems. The secondary was the man who stood belligerently before him.

“Why not?” said Laurent. His voice was honeyed. “He certainly had my blessing to fuck you, but it turned out he’d rather take a blow to the head. Disappointing, but I can’t fault his taste. Then again, maybe if you had spread in the ring, Govart wouldn’t have been so hot to get inside your friend.” It was satisfying, in some way, to have a forthright argument. With his uncle, every word contained multiple layers that must be sifted through.

But Damen did not get caught up in the words—seemed to disregard the insults Laurent hurled, as if deciding that they weren’t worth the time. Instead, he cut back to the heart of the matter, saying, “This isn’t a scheme of your uncle’s. I don’t take orders from men like Govart. You’re wrong.”

 _You don’t take orders from any man,_ thought Laurent.

“Wrong,” he raised a brow, “How lucky I am to have servants to point out my shortcomings. What makes you think I will tolerate any of this, even if I believed what you are saying to be true?”

“Because you can end this conversation any time you like.” Again—cutting through layers to strike at the core.

“You’re right. I can. Leave us,” Laurent said. He was gazing at Damen while he said it, but it was Radel and the guards who bowed and went out.

“Very well. Let us play this out. You’re concerned for the well-being of the other slaves? Why hand me that kind of advantage?”

“Advantage?” said Damen.

Laurent felt as if he had been dealt a blow, though it was a genuine question. Did he really—did he really not _see?_ Since he was a child, Laurent had learned that the things he loved could be used against him—had learned to covet them, and hide them, and construct impregnable walls. It was the only way to survive his uncle’s court. He wondered, briefly, how different Damen’s life must have been in Akielos, to be so unfamiliar with deception and manipulation. Even now, as Laurent hurled words like stones, the man responded with open and genuine emotion. What must it be like, to grow up not on the edge of a knife? There was a momentary struggle with jealousy, before Laurent reminded himself firmly that it was Damen who now stood shackled, while Laurent walked free.

He reminded himself, also, that he would not have grown up in his uncle’s court at all had it not been for Damen’s actions.

“When someone doesn’t like you very much, it isn’t a good idea to let them know that you care about something,” said Laurent. He watched the threat sink in, saw Damen’s face turn ashen.

“Would it hurt worse than a lashing for me to cut down someone you care for?” said Laurent. _Do you understand?_

Damen looked, for a moment, like he might say something. But he remained silent; his eyes were almost reproachful.

“I don’t think I need to bring in more men,” said Laurent. “I think all I have to do is tell you to kneel, and you’ll do it. Without me lifting a finger to help anyone.”

“You’re right,” said Damen. That incongruous honesty, once again.

“I can end this any time I like?” said Laurent. “I haven’t even begun.”

***

By the time he made his way back to his room, undressed, and collapsed into his bed, Laurent was bone-tired. Yet he found that sleep eluded him. The conversation with Damen replayed itself in his head. _They’re innocent. They will serve you willingly. And so will I, if you do something to help them._

He had everything he needed, now, to secure the slave’s obedience. Damen had gutted himself for Laurent, and there was nothing to blame but his own naivety. Laurent would not need to lift a finger to compel the man to serve him; he did not need to waste his time with the Regent’s slaves. And yet…

_I thought I was appealing to your better nature._

Perhaps there was a way it could work in his favor. He had already spent the past several days building favor with Torveld of Patras. If the man were to include the slaves as a part of his negotiations—a loan, of course, so as not to offend Kastor…it would ingratiate him further with Torveld; the value of twelve well-trained Akielon pleasure slaves was immense. Besides which, Laurent thought to himself, such a political ploy might force his uncle’s hand. If he understood that Laurent was a true threat—that he could curry favor with foreign powers so efficiently—it might be enough to rush his uncle into action, revealing the details of a plan that was still so maddeningly outside of Laurent’s purview.

The next morning, Laurent went to speak with the Regent’s slave.

Erasmus, the man was called. Laurent went while his uncle was occupied in a private meeting with Councillor Guion—the Regent would not learn of his nephew’s visit before a handful of hours had passed, at which time Laurent would have already instituted the plan he had formed the previous night. A plan which hinged upon what Erasmus could tell him about his night in the gardens with Damen.

There were Laurent’s own men, at the door, as well as some of the Regent’s guards—but none of them spoke Akielon. Laurent’s own grasp of the language was not as firm as he would have liked, but it was enough to communicate efficiently. Erasmus seemed nearly to faint with pleasure that the crown prince would deign to speak to him—much less in his own language—and spent precious minutes insisting that he was beneath Laurent’s notice.

It was the first time that Laurent had communicated directly with one of the slaves. The experience was disconcerting; even Veretian pets still spoke like men. Laurent found Erasmus’ manner of complete, docile servility unsettling. It felt like he was speaking to a bashful child, though the man must be close to twenty. He kept his tone gentle, careful not to push the slave too hard—from the surprise with which Erasmus reacted, it was clear that he had come to expect cruelty from the Veretian nobility. Anger twisted in Laurent’s gut; he stifled it, remembering the fury from Damen’s outburst the previous night.

“I need you to tell me what happened in the gardens.” Laurent said.

“The gardens?” Erasmus’ eyes were wide, frightened.

“Yes. After I left the clearing. You spoke with my slave?”

At the prompting, Erasmus flushed, lowering his eyes. “Yes, Your Highness.” His hands were trembling slightly—Laurent realized he thought he was going to be punished.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he said, gently, “Please, look up.”

The blush across his fair skin deepened, but Erasmus obeyed.

“Tell me everything that happened, after I left.”

The slave nodded. “I spoke with him. He is—different, from me, from the others. He told me that he was a soldier, before. He asked me how I was treated. He—he noticed my leg.”

“Your leg?”

The scars were revealed. Laurent felt sick. It was exactly as Damen had said.

“Did you explain to him how this happened?” He heard himself ask, faintly.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“He told me…that I had courage. And that there was no shame in what had happened to me. He asked after the condition of the others, and I told him. He said that he would find a way to help me.”

Laurent frowned, pensive. Everything this slave described—it was kindness. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t the way things were meant to be. It wasn’t the way Laurent had expected him to be.

“Did anyone else speak to you, after I left?”

Erasmus swallowed hard, and nodded.

“Who?”

“It was—a large man. He said he was sent by the Regent. He had black hair.”

“Govart,” Laurent said, more to himself than anyone else. Then, “What did he do? Did he say anything to the other slave?”

Erasmus’ face, which had been flushed pink only a few moments ago, was now white as a sheet. His breathing was shallow. He shook his head. “I did not understand everything. I know only a few words, in your language. The man—he told me to shut up.” _Shut up,_ he pronounced carefully in Veretian. Then, “They fought—they were angry with each other. The black-haired man was behind me. He pushed up my tunic. I could feel his hands. His breath smelled like wine. The other slave struggled—he speaks your language. I do not. I know only a few words. _Shut up…be still…_ ”

Erasmus was staring straight ahead, but his eyes were distant. His hands were fists at his sides. Laurent could see him wandering, deeper, into the past, getting stuck on the handful of Veretian phrases he knew. There was a tear glistening at the corner of one eye.

“Erasmus,” Laurent said softly, “What happened?”

The man shook his head, as if reorienting himself. “A guard came, because of the noise. He said something to the black-haired man, and he took me away from the other slave. I—served him. He brought me back to the Regent, after. His breath smelled like wine.”

“Thank you, Erasmus,” Laurent said, after a short silence, “You have been a great deal of help to me. Now, I need you to listen carefully."

He watched as the man collected himself, then continued, “There will be a banquet, tonight. I expect that the Regent’s pet, Nicaise, may call on you to perform. It will not be pleasant; you will be frightened. If this happens, I need you to remain brave. Something good might come at the end, if you are able to keep your composure. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Eramus said. He stared up at Laurent with a sort of earnest wonder that made Laurent’s throat close up. As he left the Regent’s chambers, he composed himself carefully, banishing the emotion that howled for his attention. He had work to do.

***

He was preparing for the evening’s banquet when the overseer arrived at his room with guards, and with Damen. Laurent emerged from his bedchamber, trailing white laces from the open collar of his shirt. He paused beneath the archway that connected the bedchamber with the rest of the room.

“Leave us,” said Laurent.

He spoke to the handlers who had brought Damen to the chamber. They freed the slave from his restraints and departed.

“Stand up,” said Laurent.

Damen stood. He was taller than Laurent, and physically stronger, and wearing no restraints at all. And they were alone together, as they had been last night, as they had been in the baths. But something was different. He realized that at some point he had stopped thinking of being in a room with Damen as a form of torture.

Laurent detached himself from the doorway. As he drew close to Damen, he steeled himself, souring his expression and painting dislike across his features. The events of the day had left a writhing, twisted coil of feelings in his gut that he had not yet had time to decipher. He would not let the slave see how Eramus’ words still echoed in his mind— _He told me that I had courage._

Laurent said, “There is no bargain between us. A prince does not make deals with slaves and insects. Your promises are worth less to me than dirt. Do you understand me?” He said the words as if speaking them would make them true.

“Perfectly,” said Damen.

Laurent stared at him coldly. “Torveld of Patras may be persuaded to request that the slaves go with him to Bazal, as part of the trade deal being negotiated with my uncle.”

Damen’s brow furrowed with obvious confusion.

“If Torveld insists strongly enough, I think my uncle will agree to some sort of—loan—or, more accurately, a permanent arrangement couched as a loan, so that it will not offend our allies in Akielos. It’s my understanding that Patran sensibilities regarding the treatment of slaves are similar to your own.”

“They are.”

“I have spent the afternoon seeding the idea with Torveld. The deal will be finalized tonight. You will accompany me to the entertainments. It is my uncle’s custom to conduct business in relaxed surroundings,” said Laurent.

“But—” said Damen.

“But?” Icily.

He watched Damen pause, as if reconsidering. “What changed your mind?” he said, carefully.

It was not a question that Laurent was prepared to answer. He looked at Damen with open hostility, instead. “Don’t speak, unless you’re asked a question. Don’t contradict anything that I say. These are the rules. Break them and I will joyfully leave your countrymen to rot.” And then: “Bring me the leash.”

Damen was still frowning, but he moved to the couch where Laurent had thrown the gold chain down earlier. He picked it up slowly, as if it were an animal that might sting if held wrong.

“I’m not sure I believe anything you’ve just told me,” Damen said.

 _So you’re finally learning,_ Laurent thought. “Do you have a choice?”

“No.”

 _Then you understand._ Laurent finished closing the lacings on his shirt. Damen was still holding the leash, gingerly, in one hand.

“Well? Put it on,” Laurent said, with a touch of impatience.

Damen continued to study him, warily, as he affixed the leash to the collar around his neck. He appeared to be thinking hard about something—Laurent ignored the expression. He took the handler’s staff and said, “You’re my pet. You outrank others. You do not need to submit to the orders of anyone except myself and my uncle. If you blurt out tonight’s plans to him, he will be very, very annoyed with me, which you might enjoy, but you won’t like my riposte. It’s your choice, of course.”

Laurent paused on the threshold. “One more thing.”

He turned over in his mind what he was about to say. It had occurred to him, upon reflection—and after gaining perhaps a greater understanding of the slave’s character, which prompted Laurent to think that he may not disregard so quickly his feelings when it came to matters of honor—that Damen may not fully understand Nicaise’s position at court. The first time they had met, Nicaise was led by Councillor Audin. Laurent struggled, briefly, as he searched for words; some intangible wall held him back from stating outright that his uncle was the one fucking boys. He was not entirely sure why the idea of explaining this fact to the slave brought with it a great rush of shame. And yet it would be necessary for Damen to be on guard tonight.

“Be careful of Nicaise, the pet you saw with Councillor Audin. You rejected him in the ring, and that is not a slight he is likely to forget.”

“Councillor Audin’s pet? The child?” Incredulous.

“Don’t underestimate him because of his age. He has experienced things many adults have not, and his mind is no longer that of a child. Though even a child may learn how to manipulate an adult. And you’re mistaken: Councillor Audin is not his master. Nicaise is dangerous.”

“He’s thirteen years old,” said Damen. Laurent gazed at him. _Fourteen,_ he did not say. After a moment: “Is there anyone at this court who isn’t my enemy?”

“Not if I can help it,” Laurent said.

***

“So he’s tame,” said Estienne, and reached out tentatively, as though to pat a wild animal.

Observing which part he moved to touch, Damen knocked his hand away. Estienne gave a yelp and snatched his hand back, nursing it against his chest.

“Not that tame,” said Laurent. His lips quirked with stifled amusement.

He didn’t reprimand Damen. The barbaric behavior was actually quite enjoyable, when directed outward. Laurent always had to remain so carefully polite at court—at least one of them should get to have some fun.

He was giving his pet a great deal of license. As a result, courtiers kept one eye on Damen, giving him a wide berth. Laurent found this to be advantageous, particularly when faced with conversations of which he did not wish to take part. The propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen’s presence proved a useful means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation.

The third time this happened, Damen said, “Shall I make a face at the ones you don’t like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?”

Laurent felt his lips twitch upwards—and stopped them. “Shut up,” he said, calmly.

Before the negotiations, there were to be entertainments; before the entertainments, a banquet; before the banquet, this reception. There were fewer pets among the gathered nobility here, but Laurent did see a few familiar faces. Across the room, there was a flash of red hair; Ancel uncurled himself from his master’s arm, pressed fingers to his lips, and blew a kiss in Damen's direction--and Laurent's.

The Patran delegation, when they arrived, were obvious to any observer by the cut of their clothes. Laurent greeted Torveld like an equal, and saw the older man’s eyes grow markedly warm and appreciative as he looked down.

“Torveld,” said Laurent. “I’m afraid my uncle is delayed. While we wait, I thought you could join my pet and me for some air on the balcony.”

It was not entirely a lie—his uncle _was_ delayed. Laurent’s involvement in the delay had been obscured, perhaps, and he had not been truthful about his feelings on the matter. But that was the nature of politics.

“I’d be delighted,” said Torveld, with real pleasure, and gestured for one of his own servants to accompany them also. They strolled together in a small party, Laurent and Torveld in front, and Damen and the servant following a few steps behind.

The balcony had a bench for courtiers to recline on and a shadowed alcove for servants to discreetly retire to. Damen, with proportions suited to battle, was not built to be discreet, but Laurent did not entirely mind. He did not particularly want to be alone, unattended, with Torveld, though he recognized the necessity of the situation for his endeavors. It was a warm night, and the air was perfumed with all the beauty of the gardens. Conversation unfolded easily between the two men, who had more in common than Laurent had initially expected.

“What news from Akielos?” Laurent asked Torveld, at one point. “You were there recently.”

He was aware of Damen, not quite hidden in the alcove. He was not sure if it was kindness or cruelty that had driven him to raise the topic.

“Have you ever visited the capital, at Ios?” asked Torveld. Laurent shook his head. “It’s very beautiful. A white palace, built high on the cliffs to command the ocean. On a clear day, you can look out and see Isthima across the water. But it was a dark place when I arrived. The whole of the city was still in mourning for the old King and his son. That terrible business. And there were some factional disputes among the kyroi. The beginnings of conflict, dissent.”

“Theomedes united them,” said Laurent, “You don’t think Kastor can do the same?”

“Perhaps. His legitimacy is an issue. One or two of the kyroi have royal blood running through their veins. Not as much as Kastor, but gotten inside of a marriage bed. That situation breeds discontent.”

“What impression did you have of Kastor?” asked Laurent.

“A complicated man,” said Torveld. “Born in the shadow of a throne. But he does have many of the qualities needed in a king. Strength. Judiciousness. Ambition.”

“Is ambition needed in a king?” said Laurent, “Or is it simply needed to become king?”

There was a pause. Torveld was not a stupid man—nor was he naïve. “I heard those rumors, too. That the death of Damianos was no accident. But I don’t credit them. I saw Kastor in his grief. It was genuine. It cannot have been an easy time for him. To have lost so much and gained so much, all in the space of a moment.”

Laurent thought of himself, outside a tent at sunset, on the field of Marlas. “That is the fate of all princes destined for a throne.”

Torveld favored Laurent with another of his long, admiring looks that were starting to come with more promising frequency. Before he could speak further, however, they were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, trying not to show that he was out of breath.

“Your Highness, forgive my interruption. The Regent sends that he is awaiting you inside.”

“I’ve kept you for myself too long,” said Laurent.

“I wish we had more time together,” said Torveld, showing no inclination to rise.

The Regent’s face, when he saw the two princes enter the room together, was a series of unsmiling lines, though his greeting to Torveld was genial, and all the right formalities were exchanged. Torveld’s servant bowed and departed. It was what etiquette demanded—but Laurent kept his grip on Damen’s leash, who shifted uncomfortably.

Formalities done, the Regent said, “Could you excuse my nephew and me for a moment?”

His gaze came to rest heavily on Laurent. It was Torveld’s turn to withdraw, good-naturedly. Damen shifted, as if moving to leave, and Laurent tightened his grip subtly on the leash, preventing the motion. _Not alone,_ he thought, instinctively, ridiculously.

“Nephew. You were not invited to these discussions.”

“And yet, here I am. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?” Laurent kept his tone casual, flippant. As if he was attending the banquet on some whim, with no deeper intentions.

The Regent said, “This is serious business between men. It’s no time for childish games.”

“I seem to recall being told to take on more responsibility,” said Laurent. “It happened in public, with a great deal of ceremony. If you don’t remember it, check your ledgers. You came out of it richer by two estates and enough revenue to choke every horse in the stables.”

“If I thought you were here to take on responsibility, I’d welcome you to the table with open arms. You have no interest in trade negotiations. You’ve never applied yourself seriously to anything in your life.” It was the way his uncle always spoke about him—as if he knew Laurent better than the prince knew himself.

“Haven’t I? Well, then it’s nothing serious, uncle. You have no cause to worry.”

Laurent watched his uncle’s eyes narrow. Surely, he would have learned by now that his nephew had visited his slave, earlier in the day. But the Regent said only, “I expect appropriate behavior,” before preceding them to the entertainments. Laurent released a breath of relief. His uncle had not made the necessary connections, then—there was still a chance this would work. He watched the Regent’s retreating form.

“Your life would be a lot easier if you stopped baiting him,” said Damen.

Laurent stiffened. It was a reminder, once more, of how things appeared from the outside; how his uncle’s performance was swallowed so easily—how no one ever seemed able to penetrate his mask. He did not respond except to say coldly, flatly, “I told you to shut up.”


	9. Chapter Eight

Laurent could see the surprise that crossed Damen’s face when they were seated next to each other at the table. It appeared that he still did not fully understand his position; Kastor may have sent him to Vere as a slave, but Laurent’s country was not a slave country. Damen’s social rank at court was that of a pet, though there was a cool distance of nine inches interposed between them—much further than the other pets sat from their masters.

Laurent sat consciously well. He was dressed severely as always, though his clothing was very fine, as befitting his rank. He had eschewed all jewelry except for a fine gold circlet on his brow, which was obscured by the fall of his hair. When they sat, he unclipped Damen’s leash, wound it around the handler’s rod, then tossed it to one of the attendants, who managed to catch it with only a slight fumble.

The table stretched out. On the other side of Laurent sat Torveld—a small victory. On the other side of Damen was Nicaise. Another small victory; Laurent was in a good mood as he settled onto his seat. Nicaise was separated from the Regent, who sat further down; there was no master anywhere near him.

Knowing the sensibilities of Patrans, the Regent had neglected to adorn his pet with layers of paint tonight. Nicaise was dressed respectably, in clothing not dissimilar to Laurent’s. The only flash of pet gaudiness was a long earring in his left ear; twin sapphires dangled, almost brushing his shoulder, too heavy for his young face. In every other way, he could be mistaken for a member of the nobility—which was, of course, precisely the point. No one from Patras would suppose that a child catamite sat at the table alongside royalty; Torveld would likely make the incorrect assumption that Nicaise was somebody’s son or nephew. A silly child who had a penchant for shiny jewels. Laurent well knew that his uncle could be private about his preferences, when he wanted to be. And Torveld was a forthright man; he would not expect any complicated deceptions during a trade embassy. It was funny, how people tended to assume that respectable men would not fuck boys.

Although, Laurent thought, Nicaise would not remain a boy much longer. His beauty at close range was striking, but it was an arrangement of features that would likely not retain their charm past boyhood. Still, his voice was yet unbroken, with the clear fluting tone of a knife tapped against crystal, without cracks. Laurent’s voice had begun to betray him shortly before he turned fifteen—he remembered how he had tried desperately to hold it together, and the way his uncle would frown in displeasure when he failed. He tried not to imagine how Nicaise might feel when he found himself weathering such disappointed looks. As if to age was to break some unspoken promise.

“I don’t want to sit next to you,” Nicaise said, sharply, to Damen. “Fuck off.”

Laurent stifled a smile. It seemed the entertainment was to begin early, for him. At his side, Damen cast his gaze around the table, as though worried that someone from the Patran delegation had heard. Laurent did not share his concern—Nicaise was too clever to allow such a mistake. Their foreign guests were occupied by the arrival of the first course. Laurent turned his attention to the food, watching the two pets out of the corner of his eye.

Damen spoke in a gentle voice, as if worried he might upset the child. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Laurent was not sure whether to feel amusement or pity. Around them, the table was a colored wall of voices and laughter, courtiers caught up in their own amusements, paying them no attention. Laurent turned to listen as Torveld described the small drama of one of their wagons breaking down while the Patran delegation crossed through the south of Vask to reach Vere. Next to him, Damen started suddenly.

“Excuse me a moment,” Laurent said smoothly, turning from Torveld to face Nicaise. Damen had the child’s fork gripped in his fist—there were three drops of blood welling up on his thigh.

“I made your pet jump,” said Nicaise, smugly.

Laurent tried not to sound too pleased as he said, “Yes, you did.”

“Whatever you’re planning, it’s not going to work.” The Regent must not know then, for sure. Laurent’s good humor increased.

“I think it will, though. Bet you your earring.”

“If I win, you wear it,” said Nicaise.

Laurent immediately lifted his cup and inclined it towards Nicaise in a little gesture sealing the bet. Between them, Damen looked baffled, as if he was not entirely sure how to interpret the exchange.

Nicaise waved an attendant over and asked for a new fork.

Laurent was only partially aware of Nicaise’s hushed voice, speaking quickly to Damen. The slave stiffened, but remained silent and maintained a detached, neutral expression. Laurent wondered, briefly, if the man was perhaps beginning to understand the warning he had received about the child.

The bulk of Laurent’s attention, however, remained focused on Torveld. Throughout the time that the Patran delegation had spent at Arles, Laurent had been unable to get him alone. Although he had caught his attention--and his favor--in the meetings they both attended, today marked the first time that he had truly sought the man out in earnest. It was necessary, in order to adequately arrange the business with the slaves. What had begun as warm and interested goodwill had become, over the course of the few hours they had spent speaking privately throughout the day, a more urgent sort of admiration. Laurent had the man entirely in his grip, tightening his hold as the dinner progressed with a continuous assault of charm and grace. He talked intelligently about politics and trade, allowing a little edge to glimmer only when it came across as wit—not barbed, just enough to say: You see? I can keep up.

Torveld showed less and less inclination to look at anyone else. Throughout the nine courses, his eyes remained locked on Laurent’s. The ardor within his gaze was almost overwhelming. As each course was served, ribboned and artfully arranged on jeweled plates by attractive pages, Laurent lowered his voice so that Torveld might be compelled to lean closer, giving the impression of intimacy even within the crowded room. Around them, pets sat nestled alongside their owners; some of them were hand-fed, and one or two even brazenly helped themselves, playfully filching choice morsels from their masters, like pampered lapdogs who have learned that whatever they do, their doting owners will find them charming.

“It’s a shame I haven’t been able to arrange for you to view the slaves,” said Laurent, as the pages began to cover the table with sweets. He raised his voice slightly—not enough to be heard down the table, just enough for the steady stream of murmured speech from Nicaise to stop.

“You don’t need to. We saw palace slaves in Akielos. I don’t think I’ve ever seen slaves of that quality, even in Bazal. And I trust your taste, of course.”

“I’m glad,” said Laurent, glancing up through his lashes coquettishly. He was aware that, on the other side of Damen, Nicaise was now listening intently.

“I’m sure my uncle will agree to the exchange if you push for it strongly enough,” said Laurent.

“If he does, I will owe it to you,” said Torveld.

Nicaise got up from the table.

At the next break in his conversation with Torveld, Damen leaned towards him to hiss, “What are you doing? You were the one who warned me about Nicaise.” He spoke in a low voice.

Laurent went very still; then he deliberately shifted in his seat and leaned in, bringing his lips right to Damen’s ear. “I think I’m out of stabbing range, he’s got short arms. Or perhaps he’ll try to throw a sugarplum? That _is_ difficult. If I duck, he’ll hit Torveld.”

Damen did not appear to share Laurent’s humor. He gritted his teeth. “You know what I meant. He heard you. He’s going to act. Can’t you do something about it?”

“I’m occupied.”

“Then let me do something.”

“Bleed on him?” said Laurent.

Damen opened his mouth to reply, but Laurent could feel Torveld’s curious gaze behind him. He reached up quickly to brush his fingers across Damen’s lips, a thumb brushing his jawline. It was the sort of absent touch that any master at the table might give to a pet. He was aware of Torveld, watching them. The courtiers, too—there was a wave of shock that rolled over the table. Laurent knew that the gossip about his frigidity would be renewed with a vigor, after this banquet. It did not matter; this show was not for the court.

“My pet was feeling neglected,” Laurent apologized to Torveld, who’s gaze flickered from Laurent’s fingers back up to his face.

“He’s the captive Kastor sent you to train?” said Torveld, curiously. “He’s—safe?”

“He looks combative, but he’s really very docile and adoring,” said Laurent, “like a puppy.”

“A puppy,” said Torveld.

To demonstrate, Laurent picked up a confection of crushed nuts and honey and held it out to Damen as he had at the ring, between thumb and forefinger.

“Sweetmeat?” said Laurent.

In the stretched-out moment that followed, he could have sworn he saw murder flickering in Damen’s gaze.

Still, he leaned in, careful not to allow Laurent’s fingers to brush his lips. A great many people were looking at them. Laurent washed his fingers fastidiously in the gold washing bowl when he was done, and dried them on a little square of silk cloth.

Torveld stared. In Patras, slaves fed masters—peeling fruit and pouring drinks—not the other way around. The image was planted in his mind: Laurent, sweet and yielding, with the confection between his fingers, reaching out to touch lips. He could see it, heavy behind Torveld’s eyes. The conversation recovered, after a moment, from its pause and turned to trivial matters. Around them creations of sugar and candied spices and glazed pastries in fantastical shapes were slowly being demolished.

Laurent allowed himself only one glance, back at Nicaise’s seat. The boy has disappeared.

***

In the relaxed end-of-meal lull before the entertainments, Laurent gave Damen free reign to wander about. He would not stray too far, surely, with the fate of the other slaves still hanging in the balance. Unless this had all been an elaborate act—but Laurent had the distinct impression from their time together that Damen was not a talented liar.

The entertainment of the evening would center around Ancel, the palace upstart. He was popular—the long hair and girlish androgyny appealed to many noblemen, especially those who had preferences along the same lines as Auguste's. From behind, he could almost be mistaken for a woman. Unfortunately for Ancel, it was a preference shared neither by Laurent nor his uncle.

Before the show could begin, however, servants had to dismantle the remnants of the banquet, clearing the space for Ancel’s performance. Torveld gravitated immediately to Laurent’s side as they waited. While they spoke, Laurent moved slowly in the direction of the balconies, being careful not to appear too presumptuous. When they were near to the open doors, He reached up to tug, gently, at the laces around his neck. Torveld follow the motion with his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Laurent murmured, leaning in slightly, “I always find such large gatherings to be a bit stifling.”

“Well, come then,” said Torveld, “We are near the balconies. Perhaps you can join me outside once more, for a breath of fresh air.”

“You are too kind,” said Laurent. Torveld did not bring the servant, this time.

Laurent had weathered many suitors in his time at court. He found it, for the most part, tiring—they always seemed to follow the same rote script, with the same superficial interest and heavy-lidded compliments. None of them really understood why their pretty words did not work on the prince; they had no way of knowing that he had heard it all before. Laurent knew where all courtship led, and he knew that in the minds of all the men who attempted it, their endeavors would end the same way: Laurent on his knees, or with his legs spread. It was a satisfaction he would never allow them to attain. To open oneself to others was to open oneself to pain.

Torveld was kind, but he was not so far removed from the other suitors as Laurent made him think. He was all caught up in the pretty performances, as he could only be if Laurent was showing him what he had hoped, in the first place, to see. And there was the same hunger, flickering behind his gaze—softer than many others, and warmer, but hunger nonetheless.

Laurent allowed it. Encouraged it, as they stood alone on the balcony. He separated his mind, carefully, from his body, watching from outside himself as he moved to stand nearer to Torveld. He studied the picture, considering all possible moves he might make.

He lifted a hand, as he had during the banquet, to brush gently across the corner of Torveld’s mouth.

“Forgive me,” he withdrew the hand quickly, bashfully, “There was a bit of sugar—”

Torveld reached out, and caught his fingers.

“There is nothing to forgive.”

Laurent allowed himself to be drawn closer, so that they were almost embracing. Their fingers tangled together, and Torveld moved his other hand to cup Laurent’s jaw, lightly. Laurent lowered his lashes, slightly, and parted his lips. His heart was pounding frantically against his ribcage—but then, that could be taken as a sign of arousal. His pulse fluttered rapidly in his throat.

Torveld kissed him gently, lightly; a brush of lips, with his eyes closed. When he pulled back, Laurent cultivated a shy smile; Torveld beamed at him, looking mildly embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” he said, “There was a bit of sugar.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Laurent.

Torveld stepped back slightly, untangling their fingers to run a hand over his beard. He shook his head, smiling. “I told my advisors that I was past the age to be distracted by beautiful young men,” he said, in the intimate tone of a lover, “And then I met you. And then I spent an hour in your company.”

“More than an hour,” Laurent made his voice playful, “Less than a day. I think you get distracted more easily than you admit.”

“And you not at all?”

There was a slight pause in the rhythm of their exchange. Laurent knew he must tread carefully—he could not overcommit himself; Torveld would sense the dishonesty.

“You…have been listening to gossip.”

“Is it true, then?”

“That I am—not easily courted? It can’t be the worst thing you heard about me.” There were much nastier rumors that his uncle had sent spinning throughout the court over the years.

“By far the worst, from my perspective.” It was said warmly, genuinely. Laurent released an insubstantial breath of amusement.

Torveld pressed a bit closer, leaving only a few inches of space between them. His voice deepened, slightly, in his chest, “I have heard a great deal of gossip about you, but I judge as I find.”

Laurent said, matching his intimate tone, “And what do you find?”

From behind Torveld, Damen stepped deliberately into view.

Hearing his footfall, Torveld started and looked round; in Patras, affairs of the heart—or of the body—were usually private. Laurent, reclining elegantly against the balustrade, did not react at all except to shift his gaze in Damen’s direction. There was an indiscernible look in the slave’s eyes.

“Your Highness, your uncle has sent for you,” said Damen.

“Again,” said Torveld, a line appearing in the middle of his forehead.

Laurent detached himself. “He’s overprotective,” he said. The line disappeared when Torveld looked at the prince, an expression of naked admiration across his features. Laurent graced him with a last little smile before moving away. As he passed Damen he murmured, “You took your time.”

The slave would, of course, be coming from an audience with his uncle. Laurent had expected it, after the display at the banquet. He harbored no doubt that the Regent was growing concerned with the budding goodwill the Akielon showed towards Laurent; his uncle usually mistrusted goodwill, when it was aimed at his nephew. Probably, he had questioned the slave, trying to determine what game, exactly, Laurent was playing. His stomach was a clenched fist as he wondered whether the slave had taken to heart the warning to keep silent. Damen had made clear his distaste for deception—would his apparent concern for the other slaves outweigh his foolish penchant for naïve honesty?

The answer, as it turned out, was yes. Laurent found the Regent no more aware of the dealings with his slaves than he had been during his admonishment earlier in the evening. He prodded, carefully, for information; Laurent weathered the insinuations that he was petty, childish, and making a mockery of the trade negotiations. It was the usual repertoire of insults. Laurent remained cool and composed, satisfied in the knowledge that for once, he had a plan that his uncle was unable to puzzle out. 

And then the Regent said, calmly, “You have taken the slave to bed?”

Laurent recoiled; it took some effort to compose himself. He said bitingly, “I thought my bed no longer held any interest for you, uncle.” It was hard to keep from shaking. These vague, backhanded insinuations—it was the closest they ever came to speaking about it.

“I only wish to ensure where your loyalty lies—and determine that it is outside your bedroom. It is hard to account for the change of heart, when only two weeks ago you wished him dead.”

“Is it? Please, tell me more about what it might mean to share a bed with one upon whom you wish death.” Laurent’s voice was cold and smooth as marble. His heart was a cornered animal, clawing to escape from his chest.

There was a pause. Then, “I can see that you still insist on adhering to your childish ways. This will get us nowhere, tonight.” He stood and left abruptly, leaving Laurent alone in the private chamber to which he had been summoned. He did nothing but stand, breathing, for a moment. When his body was once more under his control, he steeled himself, and returned to the entertainments.

***

Laurent watched as Ancel came forward, holding a long stick in his hands. Next to him, Damen was tense with apprehension. It was almost amusing—what exactly did he expect would happen?—until Laurent recalled the other forms of entertainment the slave had witnessed. Something like guilt twisted in his gut.

Ancel touched each end of the stick to the torch in the wall bracket, and they burst into flame. It was a kind of fire dance in which the stick was thrown and caught, and the flame, tossed and twirled, created sinuous shapes, circles and ever-moving patterns. Ancel’s red hair created a pleasing aesthetic alongside the red-and-orange fire. And even without the hypnotic movement of the flame, the dance was beguiling, its difficulties made to look effortless, its physicality subtly erotic. It was an impressive performance that required training, discipline, and athleticism. Laurent had no doubt that Ancel would receive quite a few new offer in the coming days.

The mood was relaxed. Laurent had reattached the leash to Damen’s collar, using the excuse of his presence as a sort of shield from Torveld. He acted with the carefully bland manners that he often used to manage difficult suitors. The kiss, perhaps, had been a step too far. Torveld’s servant produced a peach, then a knife, then cut a slice at Torveld’s instruction, offering it to Laurent, who blandly accepted. When he had finished the morsel, the servant brought forth a little cloth from his sleeve with a flourish for Laurent to clean his immaculate fingers. The cloth was transparent silk, edged in gold thread. Laurent returned it crumpled.

Next to him, Damen watched all this transpire with some amusement. “I’m enjoying the performance,” he said, with the hint of a smile gleaming in his eyes.

“Torveld’s servant is better supplied than you are,” was all Laurent said.

“I don’t have sleeves to carry handkerchiefs in,” said Damen, “I wouldn’t mind being given a knife.”

“Or a fork?” said Laurent.

A ripple of applause and a small commotion forestalled any reply that Damen might give. The flame dance was finished, and something was happening at the far end of the room.

Baulking like a green colt at the rein, Erasmus was being dragged forward by a Veretian handler. Nicaise said, in a saccharine voice, “Since you like them so much, I thought we could watch one of the slaves from Akielos perform.”

Torveld was shaking his head, congenially enough. “Laurent,” he said, “You’ve been swindled by the King of Akielos. That can’t be a palace slave. He isn’t showing form at all. He can’t even sit still. I think Kastor just dressed up some serving boys and shipped them off to you. Although he is pretty,” said Torveld. And then, in a slightly different voice, “Very pretty.”

He was, Laurent supposed, very pretty, if you were attracted to bashful charm and demure sweetness. Which, of course, Torveld was. But the slave was clumsy and graceless and showing no sign of training. He had finally dropped to his knees, but he looked like he was staying there only because his limbs had seized up, his hands clenched as though cramped.

“Pretty or not, I can’t take two dozen untrained slaves back with me to Bazal,” Torveld was saying. But Laurent’s attention was on Damen, who was looking out at the scene with undisguised fury. He reached out, and took Nicaise by the wrist.

“What have you done?”

“Let go! I haven’t done anything,” said Nicaise. He rubbed his wrist sullenly when Damen released it. To Laurent: “You let him speak to his betters like that?”

“Not to his betters,” said Laurent.

Nicaise flushed at that. Ancel was still lazily twirling the fire stick—no doubt, Laurent thought, under the instruction of Nicaise. The flickering of the flames cast an orange light. The heat, when it came near, was surprising. Erasmus had turned white, as though about to vomit in front of everyone.

 _Just hold on a bit longer,_ Laurent found himself thinking.

“Stop this,” said Damen to Laurent. “It’s cruel. That boy was badly burned. He’s afraid of the fire.” _Finally._

“Burned?” said Torveld.

Nicaise said, quickly, “Not burned, branded. He has scars all over his leg. They’re ugly.” The boy was used to the Regent’s cruelty. He did not know how to predict a response from a man like Torveld, who took no pleasure in pain.

Torveld was looking at Erasmus, whose eyes were glassy and showed a kind of stupefied hopelessness. If you knew what he thought he was facing, it was hard to believe he was kneeling down waiting for it.

Torveld said, “Have the fire put out.”

The sudden acrid smell of smoke drowned out the perfumes of the court. The fire was out. Summoned forward, Erasmus managed a slightly better prostration and seemed to calm further in the presence of Laurent, who caught his eye and surreptitiously offered a brief, gentle smile.

Torveld asked Erasmus several questions, which Eramus answered in Patran with shy but improving form. After that, Torveld’s fingers somehow found their way to rest for a moment protectively on the top of Erasmus’s head. After that, Torveld asked Erasmus to sit beside him during the trade negotiations.

After that, Erasmus kissed Torveld’s toe, then ankle, his curls brushing against Torveld’s firm calf muscle.

Laurent let all this unfold without batting an eye. Satisfaction curled through him—each piece of the plan had fallen perfectly into place. Erasmus was similar enough in appearance to appeal to Torveld, with his fair skin and burnished hair—and he had a vulnerability, a need for caring, and a yearning to be mastered that was almost palpable. All these, Laurent could not offer Torveld. In his place, Erasmus was the perfect fit.

“You planned this!” hissed Nicaise, “You wanted him to see—you tricked me!” In the same voice a lover might have said: How could you! Except there was anger there, too. And spite.

“You had a choice,” said Laurent. “You didn’t have to show me your claws.” _Cruelty is not always in your favor—you must see that. Someone must show you that. You have no one to tell you that there can be strength in holding a blow._

“You tricked me,” said Nicaise, “I’m going to tell—”

“Tell him,” said Laurent. “All about what I’ve done and how you helped me. How do you think he’ll react? Shall we find out? Let’s go together.”

Nicaise gave Laurent a look that was desperately, spitefully calculating. It made his heart thump, painfully, against his ribcage.

“Oh, will you—enough,” said Laurent. “Enough. You’re learning. It won’t be as easy to do next time.”

“I promise you, it won’t,” said Nicaise venomously, before leaving, with the earring still dangling against his skin. Laurent told himself it was better this way, safer for Nicaise to see him as an enemy. Yet some inner part of him had the urge to call the boy back, and apologize.

***

Fed, sated, and entertained, the court dispersed and the Council and Regent sat down and began negotiations. When the Regent called for wine, it was Ancel who poured it. And when he was done, Ancel was invited to sit beside the Regent, which he did, very decoratively, with a well-pleased expression on his face.

It exhausted Laurent to watch. Another gilded deception, on his uncle’s part. Out of politeness, of course, towards the Patrans—not because there was anything inherently perverse about the pets he usually kept. Laurent cast his gaze elsewhere, and saw that a small, unconscious smile had spread across Damen’s face. He blinked—it was the first time he had seen the man smile, and it transformed his features in a way that Laurent was not entirely prepared for.

At the end of the negotiations, Laurent went to stand beside Damen. “It’s done,” he said, allowing his good mood to color the tone of his words. He leaned casually against the wall.

“I’ve arranged for Torveld to meet with you later, to discuss the transportation of the slaves. Did you know that Kastor sent them to us without any handlers from Akielos?”

“I thought you and Torveld would have other plans.” Damen said, a little roughly. The good mood was suddenly strained.

Laurent said, “No.”

Damen seemed to realized that he was entering dangerous territory. After a moment he said, haltingly, as though forcing the words out, “I don’t know why you did any of this, but I think the others will be well treated in Bazal. Thank you.”

Was it really so difficult to entertain the idea that not every action was motivated by malice? That Laurent, too, might desire a better life for those mistreated by his uncle's court?

“You are permanently disgusted by us, aren’t you?” said Laurent. And then, recalling Damen’s specific brand of brutal honesty: “Don’t answer that question. Something made you smile earlier. What was it?”

“It was nothing. Ancel,” said Damen, “He’s finally found the royal patronage he was looking for.”

Laurent followed his gaze. He calmly appraised the way that Ancel leaned in to pour wine, the way that the Regent’s ringed fingers lifted to trace the line of Ancel’s cheek. Internally, he knew, his uncle would be recoiling at the roughness of stubble on the young man’s skin. But the Regent was a very good performer—better even than the red-haired pet.

“No,” said Laurent, careful to keep his voice detached, “That’s done for appearance’s sake only. I think not all the practices of this court would meet with the approval of Torveld’s delegation.”

“What do you mean?”

Laurent detached his gaze from the Regent and turned it back to Damen, meeting once again with that internal wall that protested the fact: _my uncle fucks boys._

“I warned you about Nicaise because he is not Councillor Audin’s pet. Haven’t you guessed yet whose pet he is?” Laurent said. Damen remained silent. _My uncle fucks boys._ Still, he could not bring himself to say the words. Instead, he heard himself say, “Ancel is too old to interest my uncle.” Let Damen make the final connection himself. 


	10. Chapter Nine

Laurent allowed himself, the next morning, a brief reprieve. A few hours of solitude, after an exhausting week spent in the throes of embassies and entertainments and negotiations, were a blessing. Torveld would be occupied with Damen, learning all he needed to know to ensure an easy transition of the Akielon slaves from Vere to Patras. It would be a while yet before Laurent would need to don once more his shell of coquettish charm.

His thoughts strayed, as they often did, to his uncle. By now, the Regent would have full knowledge of Laurent’s small coup. He would see his nephew, perhaps for the first time, as a man, capable of engineering his own complex political maneuvers. His uncle would view him as an opponent, maybe even an equal—but no. Laurent stifled the small, childish part of him that still kicked with pleasure at the thought that he might impress the man. He had outgrown such naivety; the Regent would not be pleased with his nephew’s actions. He would not be proud of Laurent’s charm and wit, would never say _it seems I was wrong; you hold power well, you are a fit ruler. You will make a good king._ That there was still some tiny piece of him that wanted, foolishly, to hear those words made Laurent grind his teeth together.

He recalled, with vicious clarity, the first moment that he had begun to realize his uncle’s game. He was a few months shy of fifteen, and able to hold the Regent’s attention less and less. Where before there had been an outpouring of affection, Laurent had suddenly found himself confronted with cool distance. There had been insecure guilt—like a kicked dog, that whimpers at its master. He was a boy, and unable to understand what he had done wrong.

After the death of his father and brother, Laurent had spent most of his time in his uncle’s company. With Auguste, he had attended court functions—with his uncle, he found himself distanced from the rest of the nobility. It was protection; Laurent was a child in mourning, he should not have to shoulder the burdens of court politics. His uncle was a shield, allowing Laurent to wrap himself in sorrow, with no pressure from the court to paste on smiles and engage in small talk. And if he prevented Laurent, once thusly rooted in despair, from extricating himself, the boy did not realize it. He had felt safe.

So when he approached fifteen, and was suddenly stripped of that shield, he found himself confronted with a court from which he had been largely isolated. Like a man cast into the ocean when he has only ever paddled in streams, Laurent struggled to keep his head above water. His uncle watched it happen, detached, offering little assistance. Laurent had been angry with himself. He was sure that he had done something to upset the Regent, and he grew more and more desperate to figure out what it was.

He was one month shy of his fifteenth birthday when he learned that there was to be a delegation from Vask. Not so different than the Patran delegation that Laurent confronted now, the Vaskians were to discuss trade and shore up relations between the two countries. Laurent had applied himself to learning everything he could about the culture; he spent weeks undertaking a careful study of the Vaskian language and dialects. If his uncle could just _see_ him—could see that he was capable, that he was taking responsibility, was learning the ways of the court—perhaps all would be forgiven. Whatever slight Laurent had unconsciously levied would be forgotten.

And then, the day before the delegation was to arrive, the Regent had called Laurent for a private audience. He still remembered how his heart had pounded with nervous excitement, eager to speak with his uncle after months of neglect. The Regent had smiled down at him when he arrived, and he had been overcome with giddy relief.

“Laurent,” his uncle said warmly, and he responded like a man turning his face to the sun.

“Uncle,” he said.

The Regent dismissed his guards and sent away the servants. They were alone.

“I hoped you might ride with me to Chastillon.”

Laurent’s heart had leapt in his chest. Chastillon—where his uncle would take him riding and smile at him warmly and sit with him in the well-stocked library, sometimes even reading him stories as Auguste had when he was a boy. It had become their own private getaway, where his uncle would bring him to escape the prying eyes of the court. If Laurent allowed himself to think further, past the easy, happy days, to the nights, then those sickly, unnamable feelings would begin to curl in his gut—he thought instead of the days. He thought instead that this must mean his uncle had forgiven him, and loved him once more. _Perhaps he has seen my studying,_ Laurent thought, flushed with dizzy happiness, _perhaps he is proud of me._

“Of course,” he had said it eagerly, foolishly. He was such a stupid child.

“Excellent,” said the Regent, “You will ride tomorrow morning, with my guard. I will join you at Chastillon in the evening, once I have seen to my duties here. I look forward to our time together.”

Confusion swirled in Laurent’s mind. “But—”

“Yes?”

“I…the embassy from Vask arrives tomorrow.”

“My dear boy,” said the Regent, “The Council is more than prepared to entertain the Vaskian delegation, with Vannes’ help. Your presence will not be necessary. There is no need to exert yourself.”

Laurent had trusted him. Like a fool, he had abandoned all his careful preparations and ridden to Chastillon the next morning. He had waited, eagerly, for his uncle to arrive, sitting in the window with a book on his lap. Night bled into the sky. His uncle never came.

By the time Laurent had returned to court, negotiations with the embassy from Vask were drawing to a close. They were efficient women, who wished to waste no time on entertainments. After they had gone, his uncle admonished him before the Council.

“Laurent, I am disappointed in your behavior. You shirk your duties and instead seek only your own amusement. The Council and I had hoped you might join us in these deliberations, yet you rode instead to Chastillon. You must prepare yourself to take responsibility at court, if you are one day to be king.”

Laurent had listened with stunned confusion. “But—you told me to ride to Chastillon.”

The Regent frowned, and shook his head obligingly. “Laurent, do not insult us with half-hearted excuses. Why would I tell you to ride to Chastillon, on the eve of trade negotiations?”

Laurent had flushed. _Because Chastillon is where you always take me,_ he wanted to say, but even to his own ears it sounded foolish.

“It is long past time for you to stop acting like a child,” his uncle said.

It was the first time that Laurent had begun to see—to really understand—the game that his uncle was playing. Laurent wondered, if he had only realized earlier, whether things might be different.

It did not matter. There was little to be gained from dwelling on the past. The game, begun so many years ago, was drawing to a close—ten months, and things would be settled between them. One way or another. The business with the slaves would force his uncle’s hand. Now, he had only to wait and see what the Regent might do.

***

His uncle’s answer came sooner than he expected. It was Torveld’s last day, and Torveld was well-known for his enjoyment of the hunt. The real sport was in Chastillon, but it was too far to go in a day, and there were some reasonable runs in the lightly wooded lands around Arles. So—only slightly the worse for wine the night before—half the court picked itself up around mid-morning and moved outside.

Laurent rode out with the rest of the courtiers. Damen would be attending the festivities too, transported, along with a handful of other pets, on a litter. Their role was not to participate, but to attend their masters after the sport was done. After the display at the banquet last night, it would appear strange if Laurent did not bring his favored pet—and besides, he was now confident that the man would not attempt any rash action until the Patran delegation had left with the slaves.

They would be hunting boar, which Veretians called sanglier, a northern breed that was large, with longer tusks on the male. A stream of servants, who had likely worked through the night, had brought all the opulence of the palace outside, erecting tented pavilions, richly colored and covered in pennants and flags. There were a great deal of refreshments served by attractive pages, The horses were beribboned and their saddles encrusted with precious stones. This was hunting with every leather exquisitely polished, every pillow plumped, and every need met. But despite all the luxury, it was still a dangerous sport. A boar was more intelligent than a deer or even a hare, which would run until it escaped or was overcome. A boar, fearsome, furious and aggressive, would occasionally turn and fight.

They arrived, rested, lunched. The party mounted. The beaters fanned out. There were a few pets joining in the sport—Vannes’ woman, Talik, and Ancel with Lord Berenger. Nicaise, Laurent noted, had been left behind.

The hunting party, sunlit, spanned the hill, flashing with jewels and polished saddlery. Laurent was mounted alongside Torveld, close by the tent. He saw Damen, who had wandered toward the mouth of the tent and now stood surveying the scene before him. Laurent paid him little attention. His focus was all on his horse.

She was a bay mare—a beautiful mount, with perfectly balanced proportions and long hips made for hunting. Auguste had broken her in as a filly. Since his brother’s death, she was the only horse that Laurent rode. She was well-mannered, even-tempered, and immaculately cared for. As a child, Laurent would often sneak into the stables to feed her sugar cubes. She knew his scent, and would push her nose into his hand, nickering softly.

There was something wrong with her. It had become clear, during the ride out to the grounds, as she had become more and more fractious and difficult. At first, Laurent wondered if it was perhaps the large company that had her on edge—the prince typically rode alone. But by the time Laurent mounted for the hunt, she was covered in a light sheen of sweat. He felt a weight settle across his chest.

Hunting, like war, required strength, stamina, and skill with a weapon. Laurent possessed all three. But more important than any of the hunter’s qualities was a calm horse. Especially when hunting sanglier, a finicky horse could easily throw its master, resulting in injury or even death. The weight on his chest grew heavier as he began to follow this line of thought to its conclusion.

Dogs wove their way through the legs of the horses. They were trained to be calm around large animals, trained to ignore hares and foxes and deer, and focus on nothing but sanglier.

Laurent’s fussy horse began acting out again, and he leaned forward in the saddle, murmuring softly to calm her. He stroked her neck gently, as he often did after a hard ride, wishing he had thought to bring some sugar cubes. He wanted, badly, for his intuition to be wrong—yet as she shied under his light rein, it became very clear: she had been poisoned.

His mind spun as his fingers brushed against the horse’s mane. Her skin was hot to the touch, already, though the ride had been slow and easy. It would be a carefully measured dose—not enough to kill her until they began to ride in earnest. Laurent could not refuse to ride her; that would mean switching horses and putting some other courtier’s life at risk, and his uncle would surely take the opportunity to make him look like a spoilt child before Torveld. He could almost hear the words: _The boy cannot even keep his seat on a horse. He makes others do the difficult work that he does not bother to attempt. Not a drop of his brother’s blood to be found in his veins…_

He could reveal the poisoning; a cursory investigation would surely find that the horse was not in good health. But he discarded the thought almost immediately as he had it—his uncle planned for every contingency. Most likely, it had been made to look as if it was the fault of one of the Akielon slaves. Such treachery would destroy the carefully cultivated agreement Laurent had struck with Torveld. And there was more at stake, in that agreement, than the lives of the slaves…

So the choices before him meant that he was left, really, without any choice at all. He would ride the mare without any indication that he understood there was something wrong. It would take all his skill to ensure he did not suffer injury. He resigned himself, with some effort, to the fact that he would not be able to save the horse. If he brought her away, intact, from the hunt, and she died later of the poisoning—everything would lead back to the slaves. Her condition was already worsening quickly. She must die, then, in the course of the hunt. Torveld might think Laurent competitive to a fault, but their agreement would hold. He weighed his own estimation of skill when it came to riding; probably, he would manage to walk away from this. Or at the very least, crawl.

He was aware, suddenly, of Damen’s gaze, and looked up to meet it.

“Can’t afford a good horse?” said Damen.

Laurent gazed at him coolly, restraining the sharp spike of anger that he felt at the words. Damen had no way of knowing—as anyone who was not intimately familiar with the mare had no way of knowing, as anyone watching Laurent ride had no way of knowing—the reality of the situation that the prince found himself in.

“Try to keep up,” said Laurent. He said it to Torveld. A touch of his heels, and his mount moved out like she was a part of him. There was a throb of anguish, at that—he banished it, and steeled himself for their last ride together. Torveld followed behind him, grinning.

In the distance, a horn blew, announcing game. The riders kicked their mounts, and the whole party streamed towards the sound of the horn. Hooves thundered after the baying of hounds. The terrain was only lightly wooded, with trees scattered here and there. A large party could canter. There was a clear view of the dogs and the front-runners, who were approaching a more heavily wooded area. The boar was somewhere under the cover. It was not long before they were enveloped by the trees, riding over the crest of the hill.

***

It was not a pleasant ride. Laurent spurred his mount on mercilessly, and could feel as the hard pace pricked at her nerves. She was used to gentle riding and sugar cubes, not—this. Laurent could feel the uneasy gazes of some of the men as he pulled out ahead, driving his horse at a brutal pace. He put all thoughts out of his mind and concentrated only on his goal: _he must be the first to reach the mark._ It was the only thing that might make her death plausible.

By the time they reached the boar, his horse was blood from flank to shoulder. The sweat was thick on her skin; her entire body shook with the weight of each breath. She balked as he rode her into the fight, weakened from the poison and the hard ride. But Laurent refused to let her shy away. He felt only half present as they cornered the mark, as he saw the flash of tusk, as he felt the awful shattering of the mare’s rear ankle, sending shockwaves up her leg and through her back. Part of him was far away as she fell, as he leapt from the saddle and rolled to avoid being crushed, as the boar rounded on him—there was a piece of himself at the same time stuck in the past, where Auguste was leading him to the stables to show him a new filly, saying, _Isn’t she a beauty, Laurent?_

The smell of blood and sweat was everywhere around him.

He remained distant on the ride back, avoiding Torveld’s enthusiastic congratulations and good-natured humor at his loss in the race to the mark. Lord Berenger gave up his mount, a well-muscled grey gelding, to ride double with Ancel. Laurent tried not to think of how his mare had screamed, before a dogsman stuck a sword through her throat.

He saw his uncle dismount and go into the tent, stripping off his riding gloves. The wrath was a living thing beneath Laurent’s skin; he felt full to bursting. He followed the Regent inside with soft, padding grace. It took all his effort to keep his face blank, with only an aseptic lack of expression in his eyes.

“Nephew.” The word made Laurent want to vomit.

His uncle said, “Your brother never had any difficulty running down a mark without slaughtering his horse. But we aren’t going to talk about that.”

“Aren’t we?” said Laurent.

Outside, there was the baying of the boar; it was being stripped down, its belly skin cut open and the internal organs taken out, the offal given to the dogs. Laurent felt, in that moment, as if he was being similarly gutted.

“Nicaise tells me you influenced Torveld to bargain for the slaves. Why do it in secret?” said the Regent. His gaze tracked over Laurent slowly and consideringly, as if he did not already know the answer. “I suppose the real question is what motivated you to do it at all?”

“I thought it was terribly unfair of you,” Laurent forced his voice into a spiteful drawl to keep from screaming, “to burn the skin of your slaves when you would not let me flay mine even a little.”

To the side, he felt Damen watching the exchange, breathlessly.

His uncle’s expression changed. He had not been expecting a fight; had not expected Laurent to maintain an iron grip over his faculties. It might have been cause for pride, if Laurent himself did not feel how closely he balanced on the edge of composure. “I see you can’t be talked to. I won’t indulge your current mood. Petulance is ugly in a child and worse in a man. If you break your toys, it is no one’s fault but your own.”

 _You have just tried to kill me,_ Laurent thought. Each word was a knife to his side. It was the ride to Chastillon, the Vaskian embassy, the admonishment before the Council all over again. _You’re the one who told me to ride._

The Regent left through the folded tent flaps that were held open by red silk ropes. From outside there came voices and the chink of saddlery and all the milling hubbub of a hunting party, and nearer to was the sound of the tent canvases flapping in the wind. Damen was still watching him.

“Something to say?” said Laurent.

“I heard you killed your horse.”

“It’s just a horse,” said Laurent. “I’ll have my uncle buy me a new one.” There was a savage amusement in the predicament. _With the revenue he gained, he could buy me a hundred horses, and try to kill me with each one,_ Laurent thought. He composed himself only enough to see Torveld and his delegation off, before retreating to his rooms, where he let the flood of emotion, finally, swallow him.


	11. Chapter Ten

Laurent spent the bulk of the next two days sequestered in his rooms. His guard, already substantial, was increased, and he was attended only by his most trusted servants. The palace that had always been his home was suddenly hostile; he felt the constant prickling of fear across the back of his neck. He woke with the ghost of his horse’s screams echoing in his mind.

His uncle had tried to kill him.

He told himself, repeatedly, that it was no more than he had expected. Except he knew, in the deepest part of him, that it was. He had been so caught up in the game—so desperately, hopelessly enmeshed—that he had allowed it to prevent him from seeing what would always be the only way his uncle meant to win: Laurent would have to die.

Logically, it made sense. Intellectually, Laurent had treated the idea as a sort of nebulous possibility that he must prepare for with action: shoring up alliances, training his men, preparing contingency plans. But in the core of him, he had never believed it possible. He had still harbored some hope that if he only played well enough, outsmarted his uncle, proved himself—that the Regent would end the game, and cede victory. He thought of Nicaise, insisting stubbornly, _He’s not going to give me up. He promised._

Laurent struggled with that deep-rooted part of himself that he saw, echoed, in Nicaise’s eyes. That child that remained stuck within him—he grasped it by the neck, wrapped his fingers around its throat, tried desperately to strangle the air from its lungs. He hated this piece of himself, perhaps as much as he hated his uncle. Perhaps even more.

He poured all his energy into preparing for what would certainly come next. His attention had been, in many ways, focused on the threat of the border; it was clear now that he was no safer in Arles than he would be at Fortaine, or Ravenel. It was only a matter of time before his uncle struck again. He had less than ten months now, after all.

Yet even amongst these thoughts, even amongst his preparations and adjusted expectations, Laurent did not expect the next play to come so soon.

He was alone in his room when it happened. It was late at night but, unable to sleep, Laurent had reclined on a couch with a heavy goblet of water. He was reading a book, something Auguste had once read to him. The story about the man and the woman, in the high tower. His servants had already attended him—he was wearing only pants and a white shirt, made of fine, soft material. He had just taken a mouthful of water and set the goblet down when the doors were pushed open.

There were three guards, dressed in his livery, with swords at their hips. But Laurent knew the names of every man in his company, and he knew, immediately, that these men were not his. With them was the slave, brow furrowed in bewilderment, hair tousled from sleep. He was unbound—completely unrestrained. The gold collar around his throat glinted in the warm lamplight.

Laurent blinked, refocusing his gaze. The mouthful of water was moving through his body in strange ways. The surprise crossed his features before he could stop it; he narrowed his eyes. And then, carefully, closed the book. He had just reached the part where the man begins to take apart the tower.

He rose, addressing Damen. “Couldn’t sleep?”

As he spoke, he moved to stand before the open archway of the loggia. It was a straight two-story drop to the gardens below—but it was the only escape route immediately available. His gaze moved again over the men—their livery, their weapons—and the slave standing with them. A series of facts unfolded, quickly, in his mind.

The men were assassins. His uncle was trying to kill him. Again. Their weapons were Akielon—an easy target to blame for the murder of Vere’s crown prince. After all, they had already killed off the first one. Clearly, Laurent was meant to fall to the sword, after which Damen was meant to fall on the sword; the slave would be blamed for the attack. It made perfect sense: he had every reason to want Laurent dead. Laurent had given him every reason—saw now that his uncle had expected from the beginning for Laurent to give him every reason. All this, he realized in the space of a few heartbeats. His body had begun to feel hot—he did not have time to decipher, immediately, if there were still more layers to the plot, because Damen was speaking.

“I don’t think the Prince is in an amorous mood,” he said, neutrally.

“I take a while to warm up,” said Laurent.

And then it was happening. As though on cue, the sound of a sword being unsheathed—it was the man to the right of the slave. Laurent wondered for a moment, wildly, if his uncle’s coup in Akielos had been practice for this moment. 

The men split their attention: two of them moved towards Laurent, while the third remained with a knife, guarding Damen. It would not be necessary. The slave would likely assess the situation and decide that it was in his best interest to let the internal politics of Vere play out as they might. There was no love lost between them; he had no reason to intervene. Perhaps he would even enjoy watching Laurent get skewered on an assassin’s blade.

He would have to worry about Damen and the third man later. Two on one, Laurent liked his odds—he might find four on one a bit more difficult to handle. He could rely, for the moment, on his uncle miscalculating; the Regent had not seen Laurent practice, with single-minded determination, at the training fields with his guards. The only people who knew his skill in a fight were his own men, none of whom were present at the moment. Unfortunately.

Laurent sized up the men, calculating—his throat had become dry, and his pulse was speeding. His limbs, against his will, were beginning to relax. He forced them to stop. He realized, as the assassins approached him, that he had been drugged, and with what, and factored this into the equation. He would not be in top form, but he would still be capable in a fight. He only had to make sure it was over quickly, before the drug took full effect.

And then, before the two men had reached him, Damen moved. Laurent watched, numbly, as he impacted the third man’s arm with a heavy blow, causing him to drop the knife. His whole body curved around Damen’s fist as it drove into his abdomen, and he made a guttural sound that was half a choke for air, half a response to pain.

The second of the three men, swearing, turned back—presumably deciding that one man was enough to dispatch the prince, and that his attention was better spent subduing the unexpectedly troublesome barbarian.

Laurent had no objection to this arrangement, though he could not fathom what drove the actions of the slave. There would be time to puzzle it out after he had dispatched the man in front of him.

The assassin had a sword and a knife; Laurent was unarmed. This was a problem, Laurent decided, that he must rectify as soon as possible. With one hand, he picked up the heavy goblet—left beside his place on the couch—and threw it with all the force he could muster at the man’s head. Instinctively, the man moved to knock it away, leaving his face unguarded as Laurent darted with surprising agility and lifted a nearby vase to smash it into his temple. It shattered upon impact, delicately painted shards cutting deep into his face. There was a crash as the goblet fell, along with the broken ceramic—he heard one of the swordsmen grappling with Damen as he gasped out, “ _He’s the prince’s bitch. Kill him.”_ At this point, Laurent had acquired his own assailant’s sword, and, after some struggle, drove it upwards through the ribcage to stop his heart.

He looked up just in time to see Damen as he swung one of the swordsmen, clutched in his grip, to switch their positions. The other assassin, charging towards the pair, found the knife stroke meant for Damen suddenly running through his partner’s sternum.

The man in front of Laurent choked, blood bubbling from his lips. Laurent twisted the sword, pushing it in deeper, until he went silent. He left the weapon stuck in his ribcage as he pushed himself away, allowing the body to drop to the ground with a heavy, sickening thud. Then, upon further reflection, he knelt to retrieve the knife that was left clutched in the dead man’s fingers. Across the room, Damen was slamming the only remaining opponent into a wall, leaving him dazed and unable to muster any resistance as he was restrained.

This done, Damen looked over, tense with the wild energy of the fight. When he saw Laurent standing, alive and intact, bent over the prone body of his opponent, unadorned shock crossed his features. Clearly, his expectations for Laurent’s abilities in battle were not particularly high. Laurent watched as Damen’s eyes moved from the knife in his fingers to the knife of the dead swordsman on the ground. They were serrated, with blades-edge finished with the characteristic fretted hilt design of Sicyon, one of the northern provinces of Akielos. Laurent saw the recognition register in Damen’s features—saw some small understanding fall into place.

Laurent approached the third, restrained swordsman, aware of what he must do. If left alive, the man had undoubtedly been coached with a story from his uncle—likely something involving the slave. It was only if all three were dead that Laurent would be able to lay out the events in whatever manner best suited him, once he’d had time to consider it. He hardened his resolve as he moved forward.

“What do you want me to do with him?” asked Damen.

“Hold him still,” said Laurent.

He came forward. Damen, surprisingly, obeyed the command. The man made a renewed attempt to free himself; Damen tightened his grip, aborting the ripple of the struggle.

Laurent lifted the serrated knife, and, calmly as a butcher, sliced open the man’s bearded throat.

There was a choked sound; the body spasmed in Damen’s grip. His grip loosened as surprise, once more, crossed his features, and the man’s hands came up to his own throat in a hopeless, instinctive gesture, too late. The thin red crescent drawn across his throat widened. He toppled.

Laurent realized, suddenly, that he was now completely alone, in an unguarded room, with Damen. He realized also that he had just sent away the only real piece of leverage he had over the man, with the Patran delegation that had departed two days hence. Without thinking, he slanted a look at the slave, changing his grip on the knife—Damen seemed to realize the threat at the same time, moving to neutralize Laurent.

Body collided hard with body. Damen’s grip closed on the fine bones of Laurent’s wrist, as they had once before. Laurent remembered his strength, and threw his every muscle into resisting. Damen applied greater pressure. Laurent’s body was reaching its limit—the effects of the drug were taking hold, now, and the press of fingers felt hot as fire against his skin.

“Let go of my arm,” said Laurent, in a controlled voice. He must not show strain—any sign of weakness would be a mistake.

“Drop the knife,” said Damen. As if they both couldn’t see who would win in a fistfight.

“If you do not let go of my arm,” said Laurent, “it will not go easily for you.”

Damen pushed just slightly harder; Laurent’s body shuddered; his resistance gave way. The knife clattered to the ground. As soon as it did, he let Laurent go. Immediately, Laurent stepped back, widening the distance between himself and Damen. There was a moment of surprise when, instead of moving forward, Damen mirrored him, moving back out of range.

They stared at one another over the wreckage of the room.

The knife lay between them. The man with the slit throat was dead or dying, his body gone still and his head turned sideways. The blood had soaked through the livery he wore, blotting out the starburst device of gold on blue.

It hit him, as he stared across the room, with the physical force of a blow: Damen had assisted in halting the assassination attempt, and Laurent could not begin to imagine why. His breathing was shallow; his chest was tight. The drug burned in his veins, making it difficult to maintain control over his limbs, which wanted desperately to sink into relaxed abandonment. Damen’s breathing, too, was shallow. Into the tense, wary moment, Laurent said, steadily:

“You seem to vacillate between assistance and assault. Which is it?”

“I’m not surprised you’ve driven three men to try and kill you, I’m only surprised there weren’t more,” said Damen, bluntly.

 _How little he understands,_ thought Laurent. Did he really have no idea who had sent the men? Or was he simply becoming better at the Veretian practice of gilded, multi-layered speech? What role, precisely, had he played in tonight’s game?

“There were,” said Laurent, “more.”

Understanding his meaning, Damen flushed. “I didn’t volunteer. I was brought here. I don’t know why.”

“To cooperate,” said Laurent. As if it weren’t already obvious.

“Cooperate?” said Damen, with complete disgust, “You were unarmed.” But Laurent watched as the idea sunk in—as he reviewed, probably, the lax way the man had held a knife on him. That they had not expected Damen to intervene was undeniable. Laurent watched him frown at the closest of the faces, as though the idea bothered him. Like a man confronted with something distasteful—the same expression he had worn when he said _I take no pleasure in hitting those who cannot hit back._

Laurent stared at him.

“Like the man you just killed,” said Damen, looking back at him. It took Laurent a moment to understand what he meant. As if, deprived of his knife, the man was somehow harmless.

“In my part of the fight, the men were not helpfully killing each other,” Laurent said.

Damen opened his mouth. Before he could speak, there was a sound from the corridor. They both instinctively squared off towards the bronze doors. The sound became the clatter of light armor and weaponry, and then soldiers in the Regent’s livery were pouring into the room—two—five—seven—the odds started to become daunting. But—

“Your Highness, are you hurt?”

 _Of course._ The Regent would not send his men to finish the job; he would never act quite so openly. Laurent felt foolish for the fear that had rushed through him, at the sight of all the red.

“No,” said Laurent.

The soldier in charge gestured to his men to secure the room, then to check the three lifeless bodies.

“A servant found two of your men dead at the perimeter of your apartments. He ran immediately to the Regent’s Guard. Your own men have yet to be informed.”

“I gathered that,” said Laurent. He tried, numbly, to remember who had been stationed at the perimeter of his apartments.

They grasped Damen roughly, manhandling him into a restraining grip. He surrendered to it, smart enough to realize that he could not subdue all of the Regent’s men. His hands were pulled behind his back; one of the guards clasped the back of his neck.

“Take him,” said the soldier.

Irritation was a sudden, sharp intrusion. Laurent spoke very calmly, biting back the feelings that pulsed in time with his heart, “May I ask why you are arresting my servant?”

The soldier in charge gave him an uncomprehending look.

“Your Highness—there was an attack—”

“Not by him.”

“The weapons are Akielon,” said one of the men. Clearly, they had been coached.

“Your Highness, if there’s been an Akielon attack against you, you can bet this one’s in on it.”

It was exactly as Laurent had expected. All contingencies accounted for, the way his uncle liked. It was the reason Damen had been brought here: to be blamed. Laurent saw, laid out before him, the opportunity that he had been searching for ever since he came face to face with his brother’s killer. All he had to do was allow the Regent’s men to play out their scripts, and Damianos of Akielos would be executed for treason, killed as a slave in a foreign land.

Once, the prospect would have thrilled Laurent. Part of him still wanted it—and wanted it badly. It would be victory, over both his uncle and Damen. And yet, if Damen had not been present tonight, it could very well have been Laurent bleeding out on the floor. He could not shake this fact, which gripped him with surprising force. He thought about Damen, applying force only so that Laurent might drop the knife. He thought of Auguste, telling him that it was not weakness that had prevented him from killing the rabbit.

“You’re misinformed,” said Laurent. The words were sour in his mouth. “There has been no attack against me. These three men attacked the slave, claiming some sort of barbarian dispute.”

Damen blinked from where he was restrained on the floor. His brow furrowed.

“They attacked—the slave?” said the soldier, struggling to digest this information.

“Release him, soldier,” Laurent said.

But his orders were not obeyed; the Regent’s men did not take their orders from Laurent. The soldier in charge actually shook his head slightly at the man holding Damen, negating Laurent’s order.

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but until we can be sure of your safety, I would be negligent if I didn’t—”

“You’ve been negligent,” said Laurent.

Anger sharpened his faculties momentarily. His entire body was now hot, and he was beginning to feel dizzy. He did not have time for much more of this—posturing. The fury honed his focus enough that he was able to deliver the statement calmly. There was some silence, which the solider in charge weathered, flinching only a little. It was probably why he was in charge. Laurent saw that the men holding Damen had slackened their grip noticeably.

Laurent said, “You’ve arrived late and manhandled my property. By all means, compound your faults by arresting the goodwill gift of the King of Akielos. Against my orders.”

The hands on Damen lifted. Laurent didn’t wait for an acknowledgment from the soldier in charge.

“I require a moment of privacy. You can use the time until dawn to clear my apartments and inform my own men of the attack. I’ll send for one of them when I’m ready.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said the soldier in charge. “As you wish. We’ll leave you to your rooms.”

As the soldiers made the first movements towards leaving, Laurent said, “I assume I am to drag these three derelicts out myself?”

The soldier in charge flushed. “We’ll remove them. Of course. Is there anything else you require from us?”

“Haste,” said Laurent.

The men complied. It was not long before the table, knocked over during Laurent’s struggle, was righted, and the goblet returned to its place. The pieces of fine ceramic were swept into a neat pile. The bodies were removed, and the blood was mopped at, in most cases ineffectually.

Laurent watched it all coolly, not without some small satisfaction. It was perhaps the only good thing that had come of the night, to see a half a dozen of his uncle’s men reduced to a compliant housekeeping crew. But the satisfaction was mitigated by the continuing effects of the drug, which was building in a familiar way. When he could no longer bear it, Laurent stepped back to lean his shoulders against the wall, seeking some form of support.

Finally, the men were gone.

The room had been superficially righted, but had not been returned to its former tranquil beauty. It had the air of a sanctuary disturbed, but it was not only the atmosphere that was disrupted; there were tangible blots on the landscape, too. The men were soldiers, not house servants. They had missed more than one spot.

Damen stood, surveying the damage. He had watched the men clean silently, brow furrowed as though trying to work out some complicated problem. Now, as his eyes scrolled across the room, there was the same bewilderment on his features that Laurent had seen earlier. Eventually, his gaze snagged on the prince, who was watching him rather warily.

He could see the problem working itself out behind Damen’s eyes. The man was not entirely dense. He tipped his head to the side and gave Laurent a long, scrutinizing look all the way down to his boots, then back up again—which, coupled with the effects of the drug, was doing something strange to Laurent’s stomach.

“You’re wounded.”

“No.”

Damen didn’t remove his gaze. Laurent maintained, with iron will, his stoic expression, returning the cool, appraising look. “If you mean excluding your attempt to break my arm,” he offered, in an effort to turn the topic away.

“I mean excluding my attempt to break your arm,” said Damen.

Laurent’s focus was on controlling his breathing. His heart, which was hammering in his chest, demanded breathless panting—he would not allow it.

Damen took a step forward. Laurent glared at him with every mote of loathing he could muster—which was not difficult to do, in his present state. He was all too aware of Damen’s body, and of the betrayals of his own body, doused in the effects of the drug. It was not difficult to hate the man, right now, simply for being present.

“I would prefer you to stand further away,” said Laurent. He was not entirely sure he could keep his composure, if they were any closer together.

Damen swung his gaze over to the goblet that had been knocked over during the fight, its contents spilt; the Regent’s men, unthinkingly, had righted it. A flicker of fear rose in Laurent’s throat, and when Damen looked back it was clear that something had been given away.

“Not wounded. Poisoned,” said Damen.

“You can restrain your delight. I am not going to die from it,” said Laurent. Although he felt as if he might.

“How do you know that?”

Laurent delivered him a killing look, and refused to elaborate. The man was like a dog with a bone—was it not enough to let the matter drop? It was not as if he held any real concern for Laurent’s wellbeing.

A flurry of emotion flickered quickly across Damen’s face. Satisfaction, at guessing correctly; distaste, as he worked out the precise meaning of his correct guess; realization, as he connected the poison to the assassination attempt; and perturbed curiosity, which settled, finally, across his features.

Damen went over to the goblet and lifted it. Laurent watched, struggling to control his breathing, as the man peered down at its contents. Understanding broke across his face.

“It’s an Akielon drug,” said Damen. “It’s given to pleasure slaves, during training. It makes them—”

“I am aware of the effect of the drug,” Laurent said, in a voice like cut glass.

Damen cast another appraising glance his way. This time, as his eyes moved across Laurent’s forcefully restrained body, there was a sort of unsettled respect—perhaps because Laurent, contrary to the screaming desperation of his body, was not entirely abandoned, and had the will and the respect for himself to remain immobile against the wall.

“It wears off,” said Damen. Adding, with perhaps more relish than was necessary, “After a few hours.”

Laurent looked back at him with every ounce of hatred burning in his veins. It was difficult to express in words how much, in that moment, he wanted to see Damen dead. Part of him wished he had let the Regent’s men take him away.

“Think I’m going to take advantage of the situation?” said Damen.

The initial response was fear—cold and sharp, sending a wave of panic through Laurent as he heard the words without processing them. _Take advantage of the situation._ He repressed the panic, as he repressed everything else he was feeling, in that moment. In his next breath, Damen said:

“I am. It was good of you to clear your apartments. I thought I’d never have the chance to get out of here.”

Relief broke, ridiculously—and immediately dissipated, as Laurent realized that Damen was choosing this moment to make the escape that he had, no doubt, been planning since he had first awoken on Veretian soil. Laurent swore.

Damen was halfway to the door before Laurent’s voice turned him back.

“Wait,” he said, hating the word even as it left his lips, yet still forcing it out. “It’s too dangerous. Leaving now would be seen as an admission of guilt. The Regent’s Guard wouldn’t hesitate to have you killed. I can’t…protect you, as I am now.” He did not have the ability to be anything but honest, in his current state.

“Protect me,” said Damen, flat incredulity in his voice.

“I am aware that you saved my life.”

Damen just stared at him.

Laurent said: “I dislike feeling indebted to you. Trust that, if you don’t trust me.”

“Trust you?” said Damen. “You flayed the skin from my back. I have seen you do nothing but cheat and lie to every person you’ve encountered. You use anything and anyone to further your own ends. You are the last person I would ever trust.”

The words hit Laurent, as if with physical force. It was all the slave’s hatred, laid bare. There was nothing he could deny—nothing he could explain away. At least, not as he now stood. He realized, helplessly, that it was likely too late to ever convince Damen that he was a good man, even if he wanted to. They would hate each other for the rest of their lives. He was not sure why some small part of him resisted this thought. 

Laurent tipped his head backwards against the wall, allowing his eyelids to drop to half-mast, so that he regarded Damen through the fringe of his lashes. The dizziness was increasing; paired with the words that hung between them, Laurent felt unbalanced. He could do nothing but release a breath of laughter at the irony of the situation: it was likely the only time in his life that he would feel the need to protect Damen, and yet he would not be allowed to do it.

“Go, then.”

Damen looked again at the door. He paused for a moment, as if weighing the danger. Laurent could see the desire stamped across every line of his body, like he might burst out of his skin if he even tried to hold himself back. As if he wanted nothing more than to walk through that door, out into the cool night air. He was right about one thing: with the apartments cleared, it would likely be the best chance he would ever get. Laurent watched him weigh his options. Watched him make his decision. Watched him set his jaw.

The door opened beneath Damen’s hand, revealing the empty corridor beyond.

He left.

Laurent was once more alone.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: references to sexual abuse

Laurent remained, standing, leaning against the wall, after Damen left. He held on to this fact. He would remain standing, he told himself, even as his muscles relaxed. His entire body trembled as he tried to bring it, forcefully, under control.

A few more mouthfuls of water, and he would not have held on long enough to dispatch his attackers. Even one more sip, and he might not have been able to face the Regent’s guard standing, and coherent, and with the outward face of cool disdain. He realized, numbly, that rape was to have preceded his death—another sign to point to the Akielon slave, sent by Kastor. Drugs, and a trio of assailants. A scapegoat, brought in for sacrifice. A servant running to inform the Regent’s Guard at just the right time. It was a thorough plan, rendered shoddy by a failure to predict how Damen would react. And by underestimating Laurent’s own adamantine will resisting the drug. His uncle well knew what his tolerance had been like, in the past. 

And with these thoughts of his uncle, and of his uncle’s plot, came memories, disjointed, overlapping with the shock of violence that had just occurred. Warm fingers, larger than his own; another goblet, another time. The first time. _Here, drink this, it will help you relax…_

His breathing quickened, and not only because of the drug coursing through his bloodstream. Not even his body was safe. It was the one thing—the one thing he had been able to control, completely. No suitors, no lovers, no pets; no one touching him, coaxing him, manipulating him, no—

_Hands, warm fingers, larger than his own, unlacing his jacket, he was limp on the bed—_

He had mastered his body, had taken it back. He had thought—had sworn to himself—that it would remain, firmly, in his own control, and never anyone else’s; his body would not betray him. And yet his uncle’s touch was all on the goblet, on the pink rim around the glass that he had not seen until it was too late, on the heat that curled in his belly—

_His body responded, even as his mind was melting, was breaking apart, because he had never felt this way before, had only begun to understand the flickers that were now turned to scorching fire, that he could not stop, that burned like the hands warm fingers larger than his own—_

He cast his mind out desperately for something, anything, to cling to—to draw him away from the quicksand of dissolving thoughts, fractured through with so many pasts, so many times, so many goblets with pink rims—

_It was too much, too hot, but his body responded, so he must like it, must want the fingers, larger than his own, and his mouth would not move to form words but the hands were warm, the fingers, larger than his own—_

He was panting, his entire body shaking. He forced himself to think, to puzzle out what might happen next. Damen—he thought, wrestling his mind, trying desperately to stop his thoughts from splintering—would move through the empty apartments, would encounter the Regent’s guard—

_The Regent his uncle drink this warm hands fingers_

—would need to move past with some made-up excuse. Laurent plotted in his mind the routes that Damen might take, reviewing a checklist of the parts of the palace he had seen: the audience chamber, the royal pet residences, the baths—

_The steam the hands the heat fingers larger_

—the banquet hall, the training fields, the cross—

_The blood there was so much blood on his back on the sheets it hurt the drug took it away_

—there. The training fields—it would be the only way he knew out of the palace. Laurent tried to picture the route: through the palace, to the fields, to the roof. It would be a hard climb; he wondered vaguely about the raw, still-healing skin on Damen’s back. The Regent’s guard would find out, eventually. They would sound the alarm, and the slave would be arrested; his foolish bid for freedom would become evidence of guilt. It wouldn’t matter, what Laurent had said to the guards—

_The cup the fingers the hands the blood_

—he would have to prepare for a new battle, with his uncle—

_His uncle’s fingers, larger than his own_

—he had until they sounded the alarm, then, and the fight would resume. But until then, it would take all his will to fight the effects of the drug that were raging through his body, awakening all the heat that he had spent years numbing. All the urgent, stirring feelings that were bound up still with—

 _the fingers the hands_

—his past. That would be bound up, always, with his past. He tried to think, to plan out what he would say, what story he would tell. But his mind was slipping from him, and it was becoming more and more difficult to stand.

***

He came back to himself slowly, and in pieces. He was first aware of the tension in his shoulders, returning as the effects of the drug that had loosened his muscles began, finally, to leave his body. He was curled on the floor; the stone was cold against his cheek. He had not quite made it to the bed. As the burning lessened, he was able more and more to draw his mind from the tangled mire of the past, until it no longer felt quite so painful to breathe. He managed to push himself up, and looked out the window. Dawn was just threatening to break, over the horizon. There was still time.

Laurent did not call for servants to help him dress, too aware of the drug lingering in his body and the effect he might suffer under another’s hands. He prepared himself immaculately, donning cool composure like armor, and called for his guard.

They arrived promptly, in their blue livery. They had already been informed of the night’s events. They reported now exactly what Laurent had feared: patrols had been sent out an hour ago to hunt for the prince’s runaway Akielon slave, who had been charged with treason. The Regent’s guard had been ordered by the Council and the Regent to execute the man once they found him.

Laurent was struck, once again, by how easy it would be to simply allow it all to unfold. The man he had wished dead since the age of thirteen would finally, irrevocably, die. It would not be the false alarm created by the twisted coup of his uncle, for this time, the Regent really would wish to see Damen killed—he was the only other person who might fully grasp what had occurred in Laurent’s rooms that night. Laurent could cheat the death his uncle had planned for him and see his enemy killed in the same stroke, removing a valuable pawn from the Regent’s board. Yet he found himself thinking of the way Damen had said, with disgust, _you were unarmed._

“Tell the Council I request an audience,” he heard himself say.

***

They were not pleased to be pulled back out of bed, after, an hour earlier, being summoned by the Regent. Laurent could see it, and so could his uncle. He would have to tread carefully.

“You have ordered the death of an innocent man,” he said. Too much time had been wasted already—it was better to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

It was his uncle who answered. “Innocent men do not run.”

“Rebellious slaves, who long to taste freedom and are presented suddenly with the opportunity, run. That impudence does not merit death.”

Some of the councillors were shifting uncomfortably.

“We were informed that the Akielon was involved in an attack against Your Highness,” said Herode.

“Then you were misinformed. There was no attack against me. There was a barbarian dispute; the target was my slave. The men who attacked have already been killed. There is no need for more justice than this.” Laurent’s voice was calm and smooth as glass.

Herode was frowning, now. “That is not the account we were given.”

“It is the account I gave to the Regent’s guard. Perhaps my faith in their ability to correctly relay the message was mistaken.”

“Messages can easily become muddled amidst excitement,” the Regent said, “I only wish you had given us this news earlier. We met to discuss the attack—your presence was sorely missed.”

Laurent could still feel the lingering heat from the drugs. “I was—indisposed,” he said. His uncle’s eyes flashed like a hawk that has just spotted a mouse in a field.

“Yet you claim there was no attack against you.”

Laurent tried not to let his loathing show entirely on his face.

“I am here now, to give my full account. I only ask that you forestall the order. Let the slave be returned to the palace, and justice be measured after you have heard the correct description of the events.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. The audience chamber was entirely empty; there were no courtiers, no other witnesses. Laurent stood alone, facing the Regent and the Council in full dress, formidably arrayed.

After a moment, Councillor Herode unpinned his medallion and held it out.

“We will hear the prince’s account, before coming to a decision. Perhaps we were too rash, caught up in...in the excitement of the night.”

Laurent signaled for his guard to take the outstretched offering and ride out immediately. They departed. His uncle smiled.

“Well then,” he said, “Let us hear the prince’s account.”

***

It felt like a lifetime. Laurent could not entirely ignore the sticky, lingering effect of the drug, and it took all his will the beat back the tendrils of the past that threatened to enclose his mind. He stood, straight-backed and calm. He spoke precisely. He remained on edge, ready to parry every word that his uncle threw at him. Yet he could not escape the twisting traps that fell from the Regent’s lips—Laurent felt like a man wandering a maze, where every corner he turned seemed to lead to some dead end that forced him to double back and try again. The conversation drew itself out in long, looping circles. The Council grew more and more restless and frustrated, as did Laurent. The only person who seemed to be enjoying the game was, as always, his uncle.

When his guard returned with Damen, shoving him into the audience chamber, there was an initial shock of relief. _He hasn’t been executed,_ Laurent thought, a bit deliriously. Damen was wearing a pair of worn, fawn-colored pants and a loose shirt that appeared to have had the sleeves torn off—presumably to accommodate the bulk of his arms. The guard who had delivered him shoved him down, so that he was kneeling on the red carpet, beneath a tapestry where a boar was speared under a tree heavy with pomegranates.

He looked up.

“My nephew has argued for you very persuasively,” said the Regent. “You must have hidden charm. Maybe it’s your physique he finds so appealing. Or do you have other talents?”

Every man in the room understood the insinuation. Laurent thought of how his uncle had arranged for him to be raped. It took some effort to keep his voice cold and calm as he said: “Do you imply I take the slave into my bed? What a revolting suggestion. He’s a brute soldier from Kastor’s army.”

“Only a solider? And yet, you’ve described the bizarre circumstances in which three men broke into your chambers in order to attack him,” said the Regent. He regarded Damen briefly before turning his gaze back to Laurent. There was a sharp sort of pleasure in his eyes; the look of a man who has cornered his mark, and levied his spear, knowing the animal will fight back—and die anyway. “If he doesn’t lie with you, what was he doing in your private space so late at night?”

The temperature, already cool, dropped sharply. _Not this,_ thought Laurent, _I will not give you this._ “I don’t lie in the cloying sweat of men from Akielos,” he said.

“Laurent. If there has been an Akielon attack against you that you are concealing for some reason, we must and will know about it. The question is serious.”

“So was my answer. I don’t know how this interrogation found its way into my bed. May I ask where I can expect it to travel next?"

The heavy folds of the state robe swathed the throne on which the Regent sat. With the curve of a finger, he stroked the line of his bearded jaw. He looked again at Damen, before returning his attention to his nephew.

“You wouldn’t be the first young man to find himself at the mercy of a flush new infatuation. Inexperience often confuses bedding with love. The slave could have convinced you to lie to us for him, having taken advantage of your innocence.”

“Taken advantage of my innocence,” said Laurent. His blood was ice in his veins. _Please,_ he did not say, _let us speak more about how inexperience confuses bedding with love._ He felt as if he might shatter.

“We’ve all seen you favor him. Seated beside you at the table. Fed by your own hand. Indeed, you’ve barely been seen without him, the last few days.”

“Yesterday I brutalized him. Today I am swooning into his arms. I would prefer the charges against me be consistent. Pick one.”

“I don’t need to pick one, nephew, you have a full range of vices, and inconsistency is the cap.”

“Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.”

How could the Council not see how ridiculous this entire performance was? His uncle was so obviously spinning elaborate traps, drowning them in honeyed words with no substance. Yet if anything, the primary tone of all their faces was exhaustion—none showed even the slightest hint of surprise at the outrageous charges that uncle levied against nephew.

“And yet, the slave ran,” said the Regent.

“Are we back to this?” said Laurent. “There was no assault against me. If I’d been attacked by four armed men, do you really think I would have survived, killing three? The slave ran for no more sinister reason than that he is difficult and rebellious. I believed I have mentioned his intractable nature to you—all of you—before. You chose to disbelieve me them also.”

“It isn’t a question of belief. This defense of the slave bothers me. It isn’t like you. It speaks to an uncharacteristic attachment. If he has led you to sympathize with forces outside your own country—”

“Sympathize with _Akielos_?”

Every ounce of fury, of hatred, of disgust—all those private boyhood fantasies of running Damianos of Akielos through with his own sword, as he had done to Auguste—were poured into the words. One or two of the councillors shifted uncomfortably.

Herode said, awkwardly, “I hardly think he could be accused of that, not when his father—and brother—”

“No one,” said Laurent, “has more reason to oppose Akielos than I have. If Kastor’s gift-slave had attacked me, it would be grounds for war. I would be overjoyed. I stand here for one reason only: the truth. You have heard it. I will not argue further. The slave is innocent or he is guilty. Decide.” He could not put it more simply, more clearly, than this. Any man in his right mind must see that there was no sinister, underlying machination to his defense of the slave. He himself hardly understood why he was doing it.

“Before we decide,” said the Regent. “You will answer this: If your opposition towards Akielos is genuine, as you maintain, if there is not some collusion, why do you continually refuse to do service on the border at Delfeur? I think, if you were as loyal as you claim, you would pick up your sword, gather what little there is of your honor, and do your duty.”

“I,” said Laurent.

His uncle sat back on the throne, spread his hands palm down on the dark, carved wood of the curled armrests, and waited.

“I—don’t see why that should be—” He had thought that if he just did the right thing—if he sought only to show them the truth—

It was Audin who said, “It _is_ a contradiction.”

“But one that’s easily resolved,” said Guion. Behind him, there were one or two murmurs of assent. Councillor Herod slowly nodded.

Laurent passed his gaze over each member of the Council. It was clear how precarious his situation was. The councillors were weary of this argument and ready to accept any solution that his uncle offered, however artificial it might seem.

Laurent had only two options: earn himself their censure by continuing a beleaguered wrangle mired in accusations and failure, or agree to border duty and ensure the slave lived. More than that, it was late, and human nature being what it was, if Laurent did not agree to his uncle’s offer, the councillors might turn on him simply for drawing this out further. And his loyalty was now, somehow, also in question.

He experienced the same feeling he had when driving his spurs into his horse’s desperate, bloody flank. As if he could see exactly how the future would spiral out before him; as if death was as inevitable on the horizon as the slow rising of the sun.

Laurent said, “You’re right, uncle. Avoiding my responsibilities has led you to understandably doubt my word. I will ride to Delfeur and fulfill my duty on the border. I dislike the idea that there are questions about my loyalty.

The Regent spread his hands in a pleased gesture.

“That answer must satisfy everyone,” he said. He received his agreement from the Council, five verbal affirmations, given one after the other, after which he looked at Damen, and said, “I believe we can acquit the slave, with no more questions about loyalty.”

Laurent felt like he was choking. “I humbly submit to your judgement, uncle,” he said, “and to the judgement of the Council.”

“Release the slave,” the Regent ordered.

Laurent watched as Damen’s wrists were unbound. Anger flashed through him; some vicious piece of himself wished he had just let them kill the man.

“There. It is done. Come,” said the Regent to Laurent, extending his right hand. On the smallest finger

_the fingers, larger than his own_

was his ring of office, gold, capped with a red stone: ruby, or garnet.

Laurent came forward. Every nerve in his body recoiled. He forced himself to kneel, gracefully, pressing a single kneecap into the floor. Bone met unyielding stone.

“Kiss it,” said the Regent. It was the echo of so many other commands. Laurent lowered his head in obedience to kiss his uncle’s signet ring.

Every inch of his body was begging him to turn away. Memories clamored for his attention—other times he had knelt, and kissed. He forced himself, through sheer effort of will, to keep his body language calm and respectful. He felt as though his heart might break his ribcage with its painful beating.

His lips touched the kernel of the gem without haste, then parted from it. He made himself stay down—he wanted only to rise, and flee. He could feel his uncle’s gaze burning into his back. They had painted this picture, together, so many times.

After a moment, there was the sudden pressure of his uncle’s hand, lifted to rest against his hair, which he stroked with slow, familiar affection.

_the hands warm the fingers larger than his own_

Laurent held his entire body carefully still, for fear that he would break into pieces if he did so much as breathe. He kept his head bowed. His uncle pushed strands of hair back from his face with heavy, ringed fingers, as he had done so many times before.

“Laurent. Why must you always defy me? I hate it when we are at odds, yet you force me to chastise you. You seem determined to wreck everything in your path. Blessed with gifts, you squander them. Given opportunities, you waste them. I hate to see you grow up like this,” said his uncle, “when you were such a lovely boy.”


	13. Chapter Twelve

Laurent remained, frozen, as his uncle and the Council left the chamber. Breathing was a sharp and painful thing. He thought that if he had to rise—if he had to look his uncle once more in the eye—he would lose some piece of himself, and never get it back. He waited until the Regent’s back was turned before standing, slowly, to watch them file out. The guard who had delivered Damen to the audience chamber had left after releasing the slave from his bonds. They were alone.

A slave would wait, eyes downcast, for Laurent to turn and give some command. A pet, even, would remain kneeling. Damen did not. As soon as the room had been emptied he stood, unthinkingly, and spoke.

“You lied to your uncle to protect me.” There was some undercurrent to the words that Laurent couldn’t quite identify—some accusation he couldn’t place. Six feet of tapestried carpet lay between them.

He narrowed his eyes. “Have I once again offended your high-minded principles? Perhaps you can suggest a more wholesome détente. I seem to recall telling you not to wander off.” He had just spent an hour hearing from his uncle about all the flaws in his character; he was not prepared to swallow any more of it.

But Damen just stared at him, saying faintly, shocked, “I don’t understand why you would do that to help me, when telling the truth would have served you far better.”

 _He really thinks I’m entirely evil,_ Laurent thought, vaguely. He was not sure why this made irritation burrow under his skin—perhaps because he had just listened to his uncle say everything short of the same. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ve heard enough said about my character for one night, or am I to go twelve rounds with you, too? I will.”

“No, I—didn’t mean—” Damen’s brow furrowed as his voice cut off, as if he hadn’t thought far enough to know what he meant. A slave would have been grateful—eternally, sickeningly grateful—to have his life spared after so drastically disobeying orders. Yet Laurent could see, in the man’s face, that there was more confusion than appreciation. He would never be grateful to be dragged through the palace in chains.

Yet, unequivocally, Laurent had saved his life. And it had not been without some difficulty; everything Laurent had learned when it came to bloodless verbal brutality came through lessons from his uncle, and even now he could barely hold his own against the man. Indeed, he was lucky to have escaped tonight with some shreds of his reputation intact. And the Regent had gotten what he wanted anyway, in the end, so it could hardly be called a victory.

He watched the emotion play itself out across Damen’s face. He had expected Laurent to let him die, obviously—even after the prince turned away the Regent’s men from his room. The look on his face was like a man whose world has tilted, suddenly, under his feet. It might have been a bit more insulting if Laurent did not remember making it very clear that he did, in fact, want to see Damen dead.

“I meant—that I am gratef—”

Laurent cut him off. “There is nothing further between us, certainly not _thanks._ Expect no future niceties from me. Our debt is clear.”

He frowned and gave Damen a long, searching look, trying to decipher what standards of honor were warring in the man's mind, that he felt the need to express gratitude which he clearly did not feel. After a moment:

“I meant it when I said I dislike feeling indebted to you.” And then: “You had far less reason to help me than I did to help you.”

“That’s certainly true.”

 _That brutal honesty, again._ “You don’t prettify what you think, do you?” said Laurent, still frowning, “A more artful man would. An artful man would have stayed put and won advantage by fostering the sense of obligation and guilt in his master.”

“I didn’t realize you had a sense of guilt,” said Damen, bluntly.

Laurent felt his lips quirk upwards. It was as if the man said everything that came into his mind, without stopping to consider the words. The plain speech was a relief, after an hour spent in the company of his uncle.

Laurent moved a few steps away from Damen, touching the worked armrest of the throne with his fingertips. He thought of how his uncle had sat there, regal, just a few moments before. Like he had been made for it--or it for him. The drug was mostly worn off now, but there was still the lingering buzzing in his limbs that pushed against the severe rigidity with which he had been holding himself. Laurent spread himself across the throne in a sprawling, relaxed posture, allowing himself a moment of reprieve. “Well, take heart,” he heard himself say, “I am riding to Delfeur, and we will be rid of each other.” _Forever, one way or another,_ he did not add.

“Why does the idea of border duty bother you so much?”

Savage amusement twisted in Laurent’s gut. “I’m a coward, remember?” There was no use in showing men things they did not wish to see.

Damen was quiet for a moment. He appeared to be thinking before he spoke, which was uncharacteristic. Finally: “Are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shy away from a fight. More like the opposite.”

 _Perhaps he is not entirely unobservant,_ Laurent thought. He allowed the small, private smile to deepen. “True.”

“Then—”

Laurent said, “It doesn’t concern you.”

Another pause. His limbs, sprawled out across the throne, were boneless with exhaustion. He did not want to think about the border, right now. When he spoke again, he kept his tone conversational.

“How far did you get?”

“Not far. A brothel somewhere in the southern quarter.”

“Had it really been that long since Ancel?”

Laurent watched, lazily amused, as Damen flushed.

“I wasn’t there for pleasure. I did have one or two other things on my mind.”

He was so touchy, when it came to matters of honor. “Pity,” said Laurent, in an indulgent tone. “You should have taken your pleasure while you had the chance. I am going to lock you up so tightly you won’t be able to breathe, let alone inconvenience me like this again.”

“Of course,” said Damen. If he had been wondering about whether he had misjudged the prince’s character, those doubts would be put to rest. Things would be clear between them, as they had been before.

“I told you you shouldn’t thank me,” said Laurent.

***

He called the guards back in to take Damen away, lingering only long enough to give a few curt instructions about security before returning to his own rooms. He could feel Damen’s eyes on him as he was taken away, once more in chains, but refused to meet the burning gaze.

Stepping back through the heavy bronze doors, Laurent could see that servants had already eliminated the remnants of the mess that the Regent’s men had left. The room was once more spotless. And yet there was a heavy weight on Laurent’s chest as he looked at the cool stone floor and thought, _that is where I dragged the knife across his throat._

Although it was now well past dawn, Laurent retired to sleep. His dreams were restless; he woke often. Around mid-morning he gave up on sleeping entirely, and instead bathed and dressed for the day ahead. There would be much to prepare if he was to ride out in a few days. As an afterthought, he called Radel to give the man updated instructions for the care of the slave.

“As you have no doubt heard, I will depart to do my duty at the border in two days. For the duration of my absence, the slave is not to leave his room. He will wash there, dress there, and remain there. He will not be let off the chain. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Radel dipped his head. His face displayed no emotion at the command.

After a moment, Laurent said, “And get him some new clothes. I dislike him in Veretian clothing—it's for civilized men.”

Radel said, “Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed low to the ground when Laurent dismissed him, and left.

The rest of the day was a flurry of activity, spent largely in meetings with his own men, the Council, and the Regent. His uncle turned to the preparations for Laurent’s border duty with single-minded intensity. Any man who didn’t know him might wonder if he already had the trip entirely planned. Any man who did know him would not have to wonder.

Seeing as Laurent retained only Acquitart, he would be relying on a company of men provided, generously, by the Regent. He would ride with his own guard from Arles to meet his uncle’s men at Chastillon, before riding south to the border along a route carefully delineated by the Regent. _The safest, most efficient way for our purposes,_ his uncle said. Laurent had no doubts about its efficiency; there was only the troubling matter of how, exactly, their purposes might differ.

In the evening, Laurent sequestered himself in his rooms— _don’t look at the stone, don’t think of the blood—_ to begin the private business he had started immediately after his uncle had disciplined him before the court. The moment Laurent had learned that he would retain only Acquitart, it was as if another piece of his uncle’s plan fell into place. Whatever final standoff they had—whatever endgame the Regent was planning—Laurent would likely have to take a defensive position on the only lands he now retained. The very same night that he spoke with Herode in the gardens, he began preparations immediately to fortify the keep, penning long, secret missives to his contacts there.

In the early evening, he received a visit from Radel; the slave wanted to speak to him. Laurent was in the middle of reviewing a letter sent by Arnoul, the keeper at Acquitart, which detailed the current stores, and he looked up in annoyance at the intrusion. Whatever business Damen thought was so urgent would have to wait—Laurent had more important things to focus on. He dismissed Radel and put the matter out of his mind.

***

It was growing late by the time Laurent decided there was nothing more to be done for the day; the sun hung low in the sky. Whatever final preparations he had to make would have to be made tomorrow. He was about to call for a servant to attend him when one of his own men—Jord—arrived, breathless.

“Your Highness,” he said, “The Regent has gone to speak with the slave.”

Laurent’s stomach turned over. Of course—his uncle would be prying, searching for weak spots. Like a man pressing his fingers against a bruise. And Damen, who had asked _why does the idea of border duty bother you so much?_ would be completely unprepared to handle whatever clever, slithering attack his uncle launched. Laurent swore, and followed Jord out into the hall.

He was approaching the slave’s room when he heard his uncle’s voice. “Why don’t you tell me what happened last night?” Laurent paused, listening.

“Your Highness. You already have the story from your nephew.” Damen’s voice was wary. _Not entirely stupid, then,_ thought Laurent.

“Perhaps, in the confusion, there was something my nephew misunderstood, or left out,” said the Regent. “He is not used to fighting, as you are.” Laurent’s heart was pounding in his chest. _As if I haven’t been fighting since the day I turned fifteen._

Damen remained silent. The Regent tried again. “I know your first instinct is to honesty,” he said, warmly, “You will not be penalized for it.” Laurent had heard quite enough.

“I—” the slave had just begun to answer when he entered. Damen shifted his gaze to Laurent with an almost guilty start.

“Uncle,” said Laurent.

“Laurent,” said the Regent.

“Did you have some business with my slave?”

“Not business,” said the Regent. “Curiosity.”

Laurent moved forward slowly, deliberately. He kept his expression disinterested. He remembered his uncle’s earlier insinuations— _inexperience often confuses bedding with love—_ and a new series of realizations began to unfold in his mind.

“He isn’t my lover,” said Laurent. _But that would make you happy,_ he was beginning to understand.

“I’m not curious about what you do in bed,” said the Regent. The words had a private edge intended entirely for Laurent, “I’m curious about what happened in your rooms last night.”

“Hadn’t we settled that?”

“Half-settled. We never heard the slave’s account.”

“Surely,” said Laurent, “you wouldn’t value a slave’s word over mine?” _He doesn’t understand why I would protect him,_ he thought to himself, _he doesn’t understand why I would place myself at a disadvantage._

“Wouldn’t I?” said the Regent. “Even your tone of surprise is feigned. Your brother could be trusted. Your word is a tarnished rag. But you can rest easy. The slave’s account matches yours, as far as it goes.”

“Did you think there was some deeper plot here?” Laurent could not resist saying it.

They gazed at each other. The weight of everything unspoken between them was a physical thing, pressing at the back of Laurent’s throat. The Regent said, “I only hope your time on the border will improve and focus you. I hope you will learn what you need as the leader of other men. I don’t know what else I can teach you.”

 _But you’ve already taught me so much,_ Laurent didn’t say. Instead: “You keep offering me all these chances to improve myself,” the words were bitter, sliding off the back of his tongue like bile, “Teach me how to thank you.”

His uncle remained silent, staring at him. _Say something,_ thought Laurent. The silence was just as painful as the speech—but at least with the speech, Laurent could respond. There was no way to fight the silence. It dragged on, catching at his skin like claws.

Laurent spoke again before he could stop himself, “Will you come to see me off tomorrow, uncle?” He thought of that early-morning ride to Chastillon, when he was fourteen—how his uncle had hugged him. _Be safe, my boy,_ he’d said in his warm, grumbling way. His beard had been scratchy against Laurent’s cheek.

“Laurent. You know I will,” said the Regent.

***

“Well?” said Laurent, when his uncle had left. He kept his gaze steady, and only on Damen. “If you ask me to rescue a kitten from a tree, I’m going to refuse.”

“I don’t have a petition. I just wanted to speak with you.” His voice was furtive.

“Fond goodbyes?”

“I know what happened last night,” said Damen.

Laurent said, “Do you?” He forgot, for a moment, that this was no longer the interrogation with his uncle. Damen drew a breath.

“So do you. You killed the survivor before he could be interrogated,” he said.

Laurent moved to the window and sat, arranging himself on the sill. He could see that this might take a while; he sat as he would if he were going to ride side-saddle. He slid the fingers of one hand idly into the ornate grillwork that covered the window, letting the lines of the metal bite into his palm. The last of the day’s sunlight was warm against his back. He gazed at Damen.

“Yes,” Laurent said. He wondered, idly, how far this would go.

“You killed him because you didn’t want him interrogated. You knew what he was going to say. You didn’t want him to say it.”

Had it really taken him an entire day to work this out? Laurent had seen the entire plan unraveling the moment the men stepped into his rooms. But then, he supposed Damen was not as intimately familiar with the way the Regent thought. He heard himself answer, “Yes.”

“I assume he was to say that Kastor sent him.”

 _Obviously,_ thought Laurent. The scapegoat was Akielon, and the weapons were Akielon. Every detail had been carefully arranged to throw the blame southward. For verisimilitude, his uncle would have also ensured that whoever hired the assassins told them that they were agents of Akielos. When they were interrogated, they would have been none the wiser.

“Better for Kastor to have friend uncle on the throne than nephew prince who hates Akielos,” said Laurent, providing the motive. It really was a well-engineered plot.

“Except that Kastor can’t afford war now, not with dissent among the kyroi. If he wanted you dead, he’d do it secretly. He’d never send an assassin like this: crudely armed with Akielon weapons, announcing their provenance. Kastor didn’t hire those men.”

“No,” agreed Laurent. He did not add any of the things he wanted to say, about why Damen might be so familiar with how Kastor liked to conduct his dirty work in secret.

Damen looked shocked by the confirmation, which was ridiculous. He had just laid out the entire plan—was he hoping for Laurent to tell him that he was wrong?

“Then…war was the aim,” he said, almost to himself. “A confession like that—if your uncle heard it, he would have no choice but to retaliate. If you’d been found—” Raped by an Akielon slave. Murdered by Akielon knives. “Someone is trying to provoke war between Akielos and Vere.”

 _Someone._ As if it was not directly in front of them—had not stood, inches away, just moments before. “You have to admire it,” said Laurent, in a detached voice, “It’s the perfect time to attack Akielos. Kastor is dealing with factional problems from the kyroi. Damianos, who turned the tide at Marlas, is dead. And the whole of Vere would rise up against a bastard, especially one who had cut down a Veretian prince. If only my murder weren’t the catalyst, it’s a scheme I would whole-heartedly support.”

Damen stared at him with something like distaste. As if it was not his country, six years ago, that had marched onto Veretian land and demanded they send their boys to be slaughtered in the name of honor.

But Laurent spoke only the truth: the timing was perfect. Pit a galvanized Vere against a fractured, feuding Akielos, and his country would emerge victorious. After all, it was the northern Akielon provinces that were unstable—Delpha, Sicyon—the very provinces that lay closest to the Veretian border. The very provinces that Laurent would be riding towards, where it would be so incredibly easy to spark a war. His uncle had already built the fire; he only needed Laurent to act as the tinder that would set the two countries aflame.

Akielos was a powerful military force when the kyroi were united under a single king, but if that bond dissolved, it was no more than a collection of city states with provincial armies, none of which could stand against a Veretian attack. Laurent’s uncle had known this, when he had formed his alliance with Kastor. If Laurent had been able to see into the future—to see how it was all connected, and the role he was meant to play—perhaps he would not have been so viciously delighted by his country’s role in the Akielon coup. By his uncle’s role.

But it was too late now; Kastor sat on the throne. Akielos was bleeding, and his uncle was a shark in the water. He would not stop until he saw war. In his mind’s eye, Laurent could see exactly how it would play out: his death, the excuse his uncle needed. The Regent—now king—sending long trains of Veretian troops southward. The provinces of Akielos, falling one by one. Veretian soldiers would stream through the palace at Ios, until both countries were gripped in his uncle’s tight fist.

Damen stared at him.

“Your welfare hinges on this plot. If only for your own sake, don’t you want it stopped?”

With any other man, the question would be sarcastic, biting, some form of insult. But with Damen, it was genuine.

“I have stopped it,” said Laurent, bitterly.

“I meant,” said Damen, “can’t you put aside whatever family quarrel you have and speak honestly to your uncle?”

The words hit Laurent like a blow. The spite gave way to shock, once more, at the depths of naivety displayed by the man before him. The entire plot, laid out clearly, and still, Damen did not understand. He could see the puppets, the pawns, the pieces being jerked about on the board. Yet he still could not think to look up and realize who was pulling the strings.

“I don’t think that would be wise,” said Laurent, carefully. Of all people, Damen should be able to see it. Of all people, he should understand how family can betray.

“Why not?”

 _He’s really going to make me say it._ “Because,” said Laurent, the murderer is my uncle.”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Laurent watched the words register on Damen’s face. He watched them sink in, behind Damen’s eyes; his brow furrowed, his lips parted slightly. He looked like a man who, after struggling for some time to piece together a delicate puzzle, has just stepped back and found that the parts cohere to create a picture which is not at all what he had expected. The surprise was a swirl of emotion.

“But—if that’s true—” Damen began to speak, and then cut himself off. His eyes were flashing, now, as if running through his weeks in Vere and trying to fit all he had seen into what he now understood. Laurent wished, desperately, that it could be this easy with the entire court: that he could valiantly unmask his uncle, and watch the realization set in, and be believed. It was with bitter amusement that he realized that the only person who might ever fully understand his situation was his worst enemy. Well—one of his worst enemies, if his uncle carried on trying to murder him.

“You can’t go to Delfeur,” Damen said. “It’s a death trap.”

 _A bit late for that,_ thought Laurent, wryly. If only Damen had realized all this _before_ he had saved the prince's life and run off, leaving Laurent with a life debt that would have weighed on his chest for the rest of his life if he did not pay it. Not to mention making it all the more difficult to prevent the war that his uncle was trying to start. 

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take tactical advice from a slave, scant moments after he is dragged back from a failed attempt to escape.”

“You can’t go. It isn’t just a matter of staying alive. You forfeit the throne as soon as you set foot outside the city. Your uncle will hold the capital. He has already—” he spoke the words as if he was only beginning to fully understand them, realization dawning bleakly in his voice, “He has already cut off your supply lines through Varenne and Marche. You don’t have finances or troops.”

Laurent could not help but feel a bit insulted by this earnest speech. Did Damen really think that he did not already understand that to ride out to the border with a company of his uncle’s men was madness? Did he think Laurent did not understand what war would mean? The bitter amusement was now giving way to something acidic that twisted in his gut.

“Why are you doing this? Is it a forced move? You can’t think of a way around it?” Damen was gazing up at him, brow still furrowed, as if searching his face for some answer. “Is your reputation so far in the dirt that you think the Council will choose your uncle for the throne anyway, unless you prove yourself?”

It was the fear voiced only by the tiniest, darkest part of Laurent’s mind, suddenly spoken aloud. He bristled, and said, “You are right on the edge of what I will allow from you.”

“Take me with you to Delfeur,” said Damen.

It was not what Laurent had expected him to say. In shock, the word slipped out instinctively: “No.”

“Akielos is my country. Do you think I want her overrun by your uncle’s troops? I will do anything in my power to prevent war. Take me with you. You will need someone you can trust.”

It was—ridiculous. Completely and utterly bewildering. Akielos, as it now stood, had sent Damen, chained and enslaved, to a court that even Laurent—especially Laurent—understood was more a pit of vipers than people. Even if he did truly want to help his country, how could Damen possibly speak of trust? He had more reason than any man in the palace to wish Laurent dead, written in the brutalized skin of his back. And even— _even if_ he was able to withhold from the murderous intent that Laurent had seen, flickering darkly in his eyes, on more than one occasion—he had just _run away._ Damen was perhaps the last person that Laurent would ever, in his entire life, be able to trust.

Yet words, unbidden, echoed in Laurent’s mind as he stared down at the man before him: _I am trapped in this cage, and I have no other way to help them._

“Why would I need that?” Laurent asked, if only because he could not possibly begin to guess how Damen might respond.

As it was, he didn’t respond; only stared up at Laurent as if realizing something for the first time. There was something in his eyes that made Laurent feel sick, something distinctly like pity. _I’ve been fighting this battle alone for years,_ he thought, petulantly, _and trust has only ever left me with knives in my back._

“I would have thought,” said Laurent, “that a soldier like you would be quite happy to see Kastor dethroned, after all he’s done to you. Why not side with the Regency against him—and against me? I’m sure my uncle has approached you to spy for him, on very generous terms.”

A smart man would have lied. A smart man, wishing to gain Laurent’s trust, would have obscured any possible ties to the Regency. But Damen said simply, “He has. He asked me to bed you, then report back to him.” It was the same unadorned speech that he always used—Laurent didn’t understand why hearing it continued to surprise him. After a brief moment, Damen added, “Not in those words.”

 _My uncle doesn’t know that I recognized him,_ thought Laurent. It was a realization that had been forming, slowly, since the moment he had laid eyes on Damen. But what he was hearing now— _he asked me to bed you—_ abruptly confirmed what he had long suspected. Another twisted piece of his uncle’s game unfolded: _he sent my brother’s murderer to kill me, or to fuck me, knowing it would destroy me either way._ He collected himself; this aspect of his uncle’s plot, at least, would never come to fruition. The idea of climbing into bed with Damianos of Akielos made him want to vomit.

“And your answer?” Laurent asked.

Annoyance crossed Damen’s feature. “If I’d bedded you, you’d know it.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes. After a pause: “Yes. Your style of grabbing your partner and kicking their legs open does stand out in the memory.”

“That isn’t—” Damen set his jaw, as if consciously deciding to ignore the baiting words. “I’m an asset. I know the region. I will do whatever it takes to stop your uncle.” He held Laurent’s gaze, brown eyes crackling like logs set aflame. “I’ve helped you before. I can again. Use me however you will. Just—take me with you.”

“You’re hot to help me? The fact that we ride towards Akielos factors in your request not at all?”

Damen flushed. “You will have one more person standing between you and your uncle. Isn’t that what you want?”

“My dear brute,” said Laurent, “I want you to rot here.” He was not above enjoying twisting the knife. Sure enough, Damen jerked against his chain, almost reflexively. Laurent had turned for the door.

“You can’t _leave me here_ while you ride off into your uncle’s trap. There’s more than your life at stake.” The words were harsh with frustration.

Laurent did not turn back. _As if I don’t already know that,_ he thought, furiously. Damen swore behind him.

“Are you that sure of yourself?” Laurent was almost at the door, now, but Damen still called after him, “I think if you could beat your uncle on your own, you would have done it already.”

The words hit Laurent with arresting force; he stopped in the doorway without meaning to. Tension sang in every line of his body, but still, he did not turn back. The hesitation lasted only for a moment before he forced himself to continue out the door.

Behind him, he heard the rattle as the chains jerked once more.

***

_I think if you could beat your uncle on your own, you would have done it already._

The words played over and over again in Laurent’s mind as he tried to sleep. Eventually he sat up, bringing his elbows to his knees and gripping his head in his hands, as if he could force his thoughts back into shape if he only pressed hard enough against his skull. His entire body shook with the tension knotted across his shoulders. 

_If you could beat your uncle on your own, you would have done it already._

What did Damen know about any of it? He had made it quite obvious that he couldn’t understand a message laid out right in front of him unless you spelled out each word. He was stupid, gullible, naïve, foolishly open—

_You would have done it already._

He was right, and Laurent hated him.

Because what other choice did he have? There was no one in Vere he could trust, his uncle had seen to that. Was he supposed to place his confidence, then, in the man who had just risked everything for a taste of freedom, who was foolish and obstinate and obviously hated him, who would likely kill him if given the chance, who had killed his brother—

 _He saved your life,_ said a small, quiet piece of his mind, _when he didn’t have to._

It was foolish, thought Laurent. Surely the slave realized that he would be blamed for the attack—surely he fought only to save his own skin, knowing it was his best bet for survival to have the prince of Vere indebted to him. Except Laurent still remembered the look of shock that had crossed his face, upon finding out that he was the intended scapegoat— _except he ran, after, knowing he would be killed if he was caught._

Laurent rubbed the heels of his hands furiously into his eyes, until stars danced across the backs of his eyelids. Even if he considered bringing the slave along—which he would not—what help could the man possibly be? He had shown, repeatedly, that he had no mind for navigating the twisting mess of Veretian politics. He had no armies to lead for Laurent’s cause, no lands or resources to give—Kastor and the Regent had seen to that. He was just one man.

_One man who has battled Veretians before, and won._

Laurent thought of Damen, unarmed, fighting off two assassins sent to kill the man he hated. He thought of Erasmus, saying softly, _he said I had courage._

***

Laurent’s apartments filled with the sounds of preparation, hallways busy, men tramping to and fro in the delicate garden below. It was no small task to arrange an armed expedition in two days. Everywhere, there was activity.

Laurent forced his mind away from Damen’s desperate plea as he attended still more meetings, gave instructions to his men, and oversaw the preparations. Laurent learned that his uncle had selected Govart to captain the guard. If he’d had any doubts that the Regent intended to kill him, they vanished quickly.

The Prince’s guard were on edge, suspecting foul play after the death of two of their own in the mysterious “barbarian dispute.” They had long been aware of the rift between nephew and uncle, but Laurent knew there was no way to communicate the depth of the situation. _You are all likely riding to your deaths,_ he thought, watching them check their armor and pack their wagons. He thought again of Damen’s words— _there’s more than your life at stake._ Laurent’s resolve hardened. He would not see his men die fruitlessly, caught in the traps his uncle had set. He would fight, with everything he had; he would make no more mistakes, would play the game perfectly, would win.

He met with his senior officers, telling them all he could about what to expect: months on the road, outnumbered several to one by the Regent’s men, and subject to Govart’s inept rule. They took the news stoically, grim-faced and determined. Laurent felt a burst of emotion at their loyalty which, like so many others, he repressed.

Finally, as night was falling, Laurent called Radel for one last audience.

“The slave will ride with me. I want him outfitted tomorrow to match the rest of the company. Give him a horse and a sword, and bring him to the stables with the rest of the men.”

Radel looked troubled. “Your Highness, I—”

All it took was one cool look, brow raised, to cut him off. “Yes?” Said Laurent, daring the man to contradict orders. Radel swallowed.

“What am I to tell him of his duties?”

“He’s a soldier, isn’t he? He will be a functional member of the company, reporting to his ranking senior, who will report to the Captain of the Guard, who will in turn report to me. He’ll serve and obey as any man,” Laurent said. His mouth twisted in a small, bitter smile as he continued, “Of course, he will still be my slave. In that capacity, he will act as an attendant, and report directly to me. I trust you will be able to inform him adequately of his duties, regarding both roles.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Radel nodded as he was dismissed.

Laurent slept poorly on his final night in the palace, and woke well before dawn. He dressed promptly and threw himself once more into preparations, busying his mind with matters of supplies and armor and troops so that he would not need to face the thought that sat, like a stone, in the back of his mind: _this may be my last morning in Arles._

He allowed himself only a brief moment of weakness. As he made his way towards the stables, he found his feet drawn on a detour, to a wing of the palace he had not visited in some time. The sun had not yet broken the horizon outside, but the sky was the lightening gray that came with summer’s early dawn. It was bright enough that he did not need to call for servants to light the torches that sat, dark and lifeless on the walls, as he pushed through the heavy wooden doors.

The scent of old parchment was all around him. The shelves towered, lined with heavy tomes; when he was a child they had felt as tall as mountains. Silence blanketed the room, comforting and warm. He was entirely alone.

He ran his fingers over the spines of books as he walked through the cramped aisles. The bright colors blurred like water under his fingers, the gold leafing on some of the pages like the flash of passing fish. He made his way to the center of the room, then turned left, walking until he reached the stone wall with its proud, arched windows.

There was a bench, crushed velvet, tucked away in a small alcove. It had been his favorite place to read as a child, and he sunk onto it now as if he was falling through time, allowing memories to wash over him: Auguste, walking broad-shouldered through stacks of books to say _I’ve found you, little brother, what are you doing hiding back here?_ Auguste, with a smile like the sun as he said _there’s no fighting at all in this one, it’s boring—pick something else to read!_ Auguste, warm and smelling of citrus from the oranges they’d eaten together, his voice soft as he read to Laurent, _and they lived happily ever after._ Laurent sat, and was still, for a long time.

***

The courtyard by the stables was filled with the activity of servants and armorers, stableboys and pages, and the shout of orders, the chinking sounds of saddlery. Punctuating these was the discharge of breath through equine nostrils, and the occasional strike of a hoof against paving.

The predawn air was cool, but soon it would warm. The season was ripening from spring to summer: a good time for a campaign. In the south, of course, it would be hotter. Laurent waved away the servants in the stables, attending to his own horse, checking her bridle and the straps of the saddle. She nickered softly, and he checked to make sure no one was looking before he withdrew a handful of sugar cubes and fed her, covertly.

He was just leaving when he heard Damen’s voice: “I owe you my thanks for the other night.”

His first instinct was to turn, ridiculously, expecting to find the man speaking to him—but he realized quickly that he was outside at the water pump, speaking with Jord. Laurent paused, hidden behind the doorway to the stables, listening.

“I was following orders. The Prince wanted you back alive, like he wants you here. I just hope he knows what he’s doing with you and that he’s not like the Regent says, distracted by his first taste of cock.” Jord’s voice was wary.

Laurent stifled the burst of irritation at hearing his uncle’s words so crudely repeated—he was already familiar with the speculation that went on behind his back. It was beneath him to put stock in the idle curiosities of his men.

After a long moment, he heard Damen say, “Whatever else you think, I don’t share his bed.”

The tone was not disgusted, as Laurent might have expected. The words betrayed no personal offense. Instead, he sounded—irritated. As if he felt the same way Laurent did about the spread of the Regent’s rumors.

“However you’ve turned his head, he sent us right to you.”

“I won’t ask how he knew where to find me.”

Laurent chose this opportunity to interrupt. “I didn’t send them after you,” he said, coolly, stepping out from the stables, “I sent them after the Regent’s Guard, who were making enough racket to raise the dead, the drunk, and those without ears.”

“Your Highness,” said Jord, red. Damen turned, a look of mild surprise on his face.

“If I’d sent them after you,” said Laurent, “I would have told them you went out the only way you knew, through the courtyard off the northern training arena. Did you?”

“Yes,” said Damen.

He looked different, wearing Veretian clothing. When Laurent had seen him in it before, it had been ill-fitting scraps scavenged from some corner of the palace en route to his desperate escape attempt. Now, his legs were covered by fine brown pants, interrupted only by the riding boots that stretched up his calves. His powerfully muscled arms were concealed by an intricately laced shirt, overlaid by a jacket, and he was fitted head to toe in the leather of light riding armor. A sword hung at his waist. He was wearing Laurent’s colors, Laurent’s insignia.

It was Veretian armor, Veretian clothing; still, Laurent was jolted abruptly into the past. He had only seen Damen in armor once, before, and he had been Damianos then, wearing the colors of his own country. It was impossible not to look at the sword that lay now, at his side, and imagine the sword that had run through Auguste.

Laurent paced forward, forcing the memories that leapt, unbidden, to dissipate. He did not try to hide the jagged dislike that sliced at him, though, as he passed his eyes over Damen, and the look did not go unnoticed.

“Too civilized?”

“Hardly,” said Laurent. He stood like a man ready to kill.

About to speak, Damen caught sight of something past Laurent’s shoulder, and stiffened.

“What is he doing here?”

Laurent turned, and saw Govart. _Ah, yes._ “Captaining the Guard.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yes, it’s an interesting arrangement, isn’t it?” said Laurent, mildly. Though it hurt them both equally, he was not above enjoying the shocked displeasure with which the news hit Damen.

“You should throw him a pet to keep him off the men,” said Jord.

Laurent turned to regard Govart once more. _Throw him a pet…_ Months of riding, without the chance to take his pleasure, would leave the man irritable, angry, prone to mistakes… “No,” he said, thoughtfully, after a moment.

“I’ll tell the servants to sleep with their legs closed,” said Jord.

“And Aimeric,” Laurent added drily.

Jord gave a snort, turning to eye the young aristocrat who stood a few paces away. Laurent saw Damen follow his gaze.

“Speaking of pets,” said Laurent in a different voice.

Jord bowed his head and moved off, his part done. Laurent had noticed the small figure on the periphery of the activity. Nicaise, wearing a simple white tunic, his face free of paint, had come out into the courtyard. His arms and legs were bare, his feet in sandals. He picked his way towards them, until he faced Laurent, and then he just stood there, looking up. His hair was a careless tumble. Under his eyes were the faintest shadows, marks of a sleepless night.

It took quite a bit of effort to keep his voice casual. “Come to see me off?”

“No,” said Nicaise.

He held something out in his small hand, the gesture peremptory and full of repugnance.

“I don’t want it. It makes me think of you.”

Laurent felt as if there was a fist, gripping and twisting his heart. Blue, limpid, twin sapphires dangled from Nicaise’s fingers. It was the earring he’d worn to the banquet. And which he’d lost, spectacularly, in a bet. Nicaise held it away from himself as though it was made of something fetid.

Laurent took it without saying anything. He tucked it carefully into a fold of his riding clothes, trying not to think about what it would mean to leave Nicaise, alone, with his uncle. _As if I haven’t already left him alone,_ he reminded himself, forcefully, _as if I ever had any choice but to leave him alone._ It was for the best; he was doing the boy no favors, splitting his loyalty between the two broken factions of the court. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, and touching Nicaise’s chin with one knuckle.

“You look better without all the paint,” said Laurent, because it was the only thing he could say. The words, _you’re better of without him,_ sat, heavy, on the back of his tongue.

“Do you think a compliment will impress me?” said Nicaise. “It won’t. I get them all the time.”

“I know you do,” said Laurent.

“I remember the offer you made me. Everything you said then was a lie. I knew it was,” said Nicaise, “You’re leaving.”

 _You’re leaving,_ he had said to Auguste, in the tent at Marlas, _Why are you leaving? Don’t go, don’t leave, you’re leaving me alone—_

“I’m coming back,” said Laurent. It was the same thing Auguste had said to him.

“Is that what you think?”

His breath caught, for a moment. It was better this way, better not leave him torn, better to let sleeping dogs lie. And yet the words sparked something in Laurent, some hard kernel of determination that he could not release. _I am **not** Auguste, _he thought, wildly.

“I’m coming back.” The words were a promise. They had to be.

“To keep me as a pet?” said Nicaise. “You’d love that. To make me your servant.”

Dawn passed over the courtyard. Colors changed. A sparrow landed on one of the stable posts close by but lifted off again at the sound of one of the men dropping an armful of tack.

“I would never ask you to do anything you found distasteful,” said Laurent.

“Looking at you is distasteful,” said Nicaise.

***

There was no loving goodbye between uncle and nephew, only the impersonal ritual of public ceremony.

It was a spectacle. The Regent was in full robes of state, and Laurent’s men were turned out with perfect discipline. Lined and polished, they stood arrayed in the outer courtyard, while the Regent at the top of the wide steps received Laurent. It was a morning of warm, breathless weather. His uncle pinned the jeweled badge of office to Laurent’s shoulder, then urged him to rise, and kissed him calmly on both cheeks. The brush of lips, the scratch of his beard—it was only the presence of the audience that forced Laurent to maintain his composure. He wanted to throw up.

Laurent mounted. Banners furled out around him in a series of starbursts, blue and gold. Trumpets blared and Govart’s horse kicked, despite its training. It was not only courtiers who were here to watch, but commoners, crowding near the gate. The scores of people who had turned out to see their Prince made a wall of approving sound. His uncle may have managed to turn the entire palace against him, but the people still loved Laurent. He allowed his gaze to sweep the crowd once, as he mounted—Nicaise was nowhere to be found.

Straight-backed and effortless in the saddle, Laurent rode out with his jaw set. He was aware of Damen behind him, who had been given a good horse and a place in the formation close by. As they passed beyond the inner walls, he kept his gaze resolutely ahead. He knew what he would see if he turned: the tall doors, domes and towers, and the endless, intricate, interwoven patterns carved into the creamy stone, the curving roof spires, alight with marble and polished metal, stretching into the sky. There was no use in looking back. 

He was aware of the irony of his situation, riding out to fight for his country with Vere’s greatest enemy at his side. Joining forces with an Akielon who would likely take the chance to kill him, to prevent war between their two countries. Damen was the source of all the problems that Laurent now faced: it had been his sword that lifted the Regent to power. But none of that mattered before the urgency of stopping the machinery of his uncle’s plans. If it was the only way to prevent war, or postpone it, then Laurent would do whatever was necessary to stop the Regent. Even if it meant working with his brother’s killer.

Having passed out of the walls of the Veretian palace, his resolve hardened like armor. Whatever his uncle intended, he would not go down without a fight; he may be leaving the palace behind, but he had promised, one day, to come back.

He returned his eyes to the road, and the first part of his journey. South, to the fight of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of book one!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read this fic, and to everyone who left encouraging comments and kudos. I really just started writing this because I found myself trying to imagine what Laurent would be thinking and feeling throughout the series and because I was bored, so the support means a lot :)
> 
> I honestly really hate a lot of book one; books two and three are what keep me coming back to the series. I really want to complete the entire series from Laurent's perspective and plan to get started on book two, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep up the pace I had going for book one--especially because books two and three are longer. I really don't want to sacrifice quality for speed, and writing about 2 chapters every day is pretty intense, so I might have to slow down. But for anyone who decides to continue reading, thanks for taking interest in my interpretation of this series!


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